


The Clockwork Murders

by Selenay



Series: Dangerous Instruments [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, BAMF Phil Coulson, Comic Book Science, Edwardian Period, M/M, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Mystery, Pheels, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Robots, Slight Mentions of Body Horror, Slow Build, Smart Clint Barton, Valet Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has two lives: by day he's a quiet, respectable Edwardian gentleman and his biggest risk is on a hand of cards at his club; at night he's a masked vigilante, fighting to make London safer. Keeping those lives separate is difficult enough when his closest friend is the head of a special task force within the Metropolitan police. It becomes even more difficult when his latest case gets dangerously close to home, bodies start washing up on the banks of the Thames, and Detective Inspector Fury's team is tasked with capturing the vigilante.</p><p>Clint Barton, Coulson's new valet, is down on his luck and inexperienced at valeting but his skills from his former life may be exactly what Coulson needs. They just need to negotiate their way through Coulson's secret life and their growing attraction to each other. And save London from a terrifying new threat along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fanfiction Cover: The Clockwork Murders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010479) by [ctbn60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctbn60/pseuds/ctbn60). 



> This fic germinated in a discussion on Twitter months ago, about the possibilities of vigilante Edwardian gentleman Phil Coulson and his valet. Somehow I ended up fleshing out a whole bunch of things and then I mentioned steampunk and it was rolling. So thank you to Tawg, Frankie and Mikey for encouraging this. Thanks also to all the people who acted as cheerleaders (you know who you are) when this thing grew and grew and turned into a novel and I began flailing.
> 
> My beta, Fahre, did an amazing job at helping me to knock this into shape despite the massive word count. Without her, there would be plotholes and terrible grammar galore. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> My artist is absolutely fantastic and the artwork ([here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1010479)) blew me away, thank you.

_London, March 3rd, 1908_

There were several things that everyone who knew Phil Coulson agreed on: he liked order, he liked stability, and he avoided the unexpected at every opportunity. Not all of that was strictly true, but his love of order was accurate.

Not many people could appreciate the joy of an orderly ledger and most people failed to see how reading neat lines of numbers could possibly constitute an enjoyable day's activity. The books currently on Coulson's desk were the best example of fine record keeping he'd seen in years. It was almost a pleasure to be working through such a beautifully written set of accounts. Even his estate manager, Sitwell, didn't produce figures as precisely detailed as these.

The only slight problem was that he didn't believe a single line of them.

Coulson carefully ran a finger down the column of numbers, following the pattern that was finally starting to emerge. His eyes were burning from working on them since early morning and there was a dull ache in his back due to the long day hunched over his desk. But he was finally seeing the full picture and the neat columns of figures were giving up their secrets. It was a story filled with deceit, bribes, and opium dens, which had begun with several children getting sick after drinking tonics their mothers bought from a snake oil salesman. None of them had died and they were poor enough to be barely one step out of the workhouse so the police had no interest in investigating. That was where Coulson had stepped in, carefully watching and tracking the salesman and his associates and stumbling into something much bigger than tonics made with river water and dubiously obtained chemicals. He'd traced shipments and followed carts around London and now he could see how the money for the gang's legitimate shipping business masked all the less legitimate goods they traded in. Tomorrow he would have an airtight case to send to Scotland Yard just in time for the police to raid a certain warehouse before the latest opium shipment could be moved out.

Not that they'd ever know he'd been the one who put it all together for them. That was much too dangerous. But he took pride in ensuring that every case and criminal he sent their way deserved their fate and couldn't escape it, either.

He pulled a fresh piece of paper closer, picked up his pen, and he had just dipped the nib into the ink pot when there was a firm rap on the door. Coulson sighed and put down his pen, sliding the paper partially over the open books a moment before the door opened.

His housekeeper, Mrs Driver, was still putting the last pin in her hat when she entered and Coulson suppressed a wince. Time had got away from him and he hadn't realised how late it was growing. Now that he'd been distracted from his work, he could see that the sky outside his window was starting to turn pink on the horizon and his study had grown so dark it was a miracle he'd been able to see to read. Perhaps that explained in part why his eyes were aching so badly.

As always, Mrs Driver tutted at him and gingerly flicked the light switch. Despite a year of being connected to the new electricity supply, she was still deeply suspicious and half convinced that it would burn the house down one day. Coulson privately felt it was safer than the gas lamps had been but Mrs Driver would never be convinced. She eyed anything electric with deep suspicion and regularly left advertisements for the latest steam-powered or clockwork gadgets on his desk.  She wasn't the only person who felt that way, sadly, which was why Coulson's house was still the only one in Walden Square with electricity.

"I'm off home now, sir," she said briskly. "I've left some cold beef in the kitchen in case you change your mind about dining in your club."

"I won't," Coulson said mildly.

Mrs Driver hesitated before reaching into her coat pocket to take out a white envelope and offer it to him. "I wrote this all up neatly, sir, I know how much you like an orderly letter. It's my resignation. I'll stay 'til the end of the month and, if you don’t mind, I've a young niece who can come in most days and clean for you after I've left."

Coulson had known, in a way, that this was coming but he still had to take a breath before saying, "If there's anything I've done-"

"Oh, no sir, don't think that!" Mrs Driver said quickly. "Mr Coulson, you've been an excellent master. You really have. It's just...my sister has come into a small house down on the coast and she's asked me to live with her. I'm getting on now and it would be nice to have a few easy years before I join my George."

"Oh." Coulson allowed a small, gentle smile to reassure her. "Of course, you have to take your chance when you're offered one. If there's anything you need, please let me know."

"I'll be fine, sir." Mrs Driver frowned. "Except...sir, it's time you replaced Mr Gowan. My Daisy can clean and she can cook a little, she'll do for a housemaid after I'm gone, but you need a proper valet again. I'll not have my Daisy working on your shirts or answering the door; she's young and impressionable and shouldn't be doing such for a gentleman. Even one as respectable as you."

"Good valets are hard to find, Mrs Driver," Coulson said.

"Hmm. They're even harder to find if you don't look. Mr Gowan's been gone for six months and you haven't even put a notice in the paper." Mrs Driver fixed him with a glare. "You need to find a new valet, sir, or you'll be looking for a maid as well."

Coulson sighed. "I'll try."

"You'll do more than try, sir," Mrs Driver said firmly. "I've got a young man you could try, my George's sister's son. He's not trained but he's good with an iron and a needle, he can cook and the rest he can learn quickly enough. I can send him over tomorrow for you to look over, if you'd like. Edith ran off with an American so he'll have some bad influences, but I'm sure you can train him out of them."

"Sometimes I wonder who is the employer and who is the employee in our relationship," Coulson said.

Mrs Driver snorted. "Then you'll be pleased when I'm gone and you have young Daisy and your new valet to order about."

"I'll see him tomorrow," Coulson said. "I promise."

"Good." Mrs Driver nodded. "Then I've said my piece and I'll be getting home."

"Good night," Coulson said.

She was still chuckling and tutting as she left and Coulson sat back in his chair for a moment. In a lot of ways she was right, he did need a new valet. Or a manservant of some kind, anyway, if only to keep the gossips from whispering about him and his unconventional household. On the other hand, it had been much easier to keep his night-time activities secret for the last few months with the house empty after Mrs Driver left. A live-in man of any kind would make his life much more complicated and it was that as much as his dislike for change which had kept him from making inquiries with agencies or putting a notice in the paper.

Coulson rubbed his tired eyes and put the thought aside. He had much more important things to see to for now, starting with copying the relevant parts of the ledgers he'd 'borrowed' and needed to return tonight before anyone noticed they were missing. As long as his targets held to their usual habits, nobody should be going into the warehouse where the ledgers were kept until tomorrow.

He pulled his clean sheet of paper closer, dipped his pen in the ink and started writing.

***

Coulson's club was Chester's, located on St. James's Street with many of the other gentlemen's clubs. He'd chosen it when he was a young man because it was radical, progressive, and as different from his father's club, Boodle's, as anyone could imagine it. For a young man trying to make his own way and throw off the old traditions, Chester's was perfect. Coulson had quietly enjoyed the way his father's eye twitched whenever the subject of clubs and friends was raised.

There would have been more value in not joining a club at all, Coulson sometimes reflected with the benefit of twenty years' hindsight. More value in a moral sense, perhaps. The contacts and network Chester's provided, however, were a benefit that couldn't quite be estimated so he continued to pay his subscriptions and show his face around the place regularly.

Chester's also had fine chefs and excellent whiskey, both of which Coulson was looking forward to when his cab stopped at the doors. He nodded to the doorman as he entered and surrendered his coat and hat while exchanging pleasantries with the coat clerk. Several acquaintances smiled as he passed them on his way to his favourite chair in the common room. The large room was always set with small groups of comfortable armchairs, arranged to allow members to feel almost like they had privacy while they talked, and there were large fireplaces at either end.

Coulson's usual waiter approached just as he was sitting down. Evans already had a glass of whiskey on a silver server for him and Coulson took it with a respectful nod for Evans' thoughtfulness.

"Will you be dining with us tonight, sir?" Evans asked. "We have a roast of beef or a pheasant pie, if you'd please. We can bring it in here or I can set up your usual table in the dining room."

Coulson smiled and said, "I'll have some of the pie, Evans, and I'll take it here."

With a nod and a bow, Evans hurried away and Coulson took an appreciative sniff of the whiskey. There was a fire in the hearth nearby chasing away the dampness in the spring air and everything was warm and comfortable. Sometimes Coulson couldn't quite remember why he stubbornly refused to simply take rooms in the club like some of his older friends and give up the house completely.

The pie was as good as promised. Coulson had only taken a few bites when there was a slight lift in the buzz of quiet conversation around the room. He looked up and spotted an old friend striding across the room.

Fury was exactly the kind of man Boodle's rejected and therefore precisely the kind of man Coulson had come to Chester's to find all those years ago. Even if his skin colour and missing eye hadn't been against him, his profession wasn't respectable. He was no gentleman of independent means or even a banker.

Nick Fury was the head of a small and very secretive branch of the Metropolitan police. In the eyes of anyone at Boodle's he was little better than a tradesman, even if he was wealthy from a large inheritance.

In the eyes of most members of Chester's, he was Detective Inspector Fury of SHIELD and therefore he was one of their prized assets.

"Coulson!" Fury said as he approached.

Coulson stood and held out a hand. "It's good to see you."

There was another chair near Coulson's. Fury sat down and stretched out his legs, gesturing for Coulson to continue his meal. Evans materialised at Fury's side with a glass of whisky and a murmured offer of food, which Fury declined with an impatient wave.

"How are you?" Fury asked after Evans left. "We always seem to be passing each other lately. It feels like months since we last talked properly."

"You haven't missed much," Coulson said mildly. "The most exciting development is my estate manager's obsession with these new automaton creatures. Sitwell sends me a catalogue each week and his latest scheme is to replace the fruit pickers with a dozen of the things. He can't seem to accept that I won't have them on my land."

Fury grunted. "I don't blame you. Those things are unnerving; you can't see how they work. They just...do things because people tell them to. How do we know they won't take it into their tin heads to go and do something we didn't want them to do? At least they don't blow up as often as steam cars, but they're still not something I'd want in my house."

"I'll let Sitwell install them as fruit pickers before I'll let one into a house," Coulson said firmly as he scraped up his last mouthful of pie.

"Wise decision," Fury said. "Until someone can assure me they're safe, I won't have one in my department. Bad enough they're forcing a steam car on me, I won't have an automaton making the tea as well."

Coulson sat back with a satisfied sigh and sipped his brandy. "Sometimes I worry that progress is leaving us behind. When did we get this old?"

Fury snorted. "Progress isn't leaving you behind, it's just going down a different route. One that doesn't include your electricity."

"One that doesn't care about safety."

"You've got that right."

They sat in companionable silence for a while before Coulson said, "Mrs Driver is retiring."

"You sound surprised," Fury commented.

Until he said it, Coulson hadn't realised how much his talk with Mrs Driver was still on his mind. He wasn't sure whether he was more disturbed by the idea of having to add someone new to his household or the prospect of losing someone who had been there for his entire adult life.

"I supposed that I forgot she was getting older," Coulson said.

"What will you do?" Fury asked.

"She wants me to replace Gowan," Coulson said with a wry smile. "I think she feels that the combination of a new Gowan and her niece hiring on as my housemaid will be more than enough for my lifestyle in London."

"You've been without a valet for six months. People _are_ talking about you." Fury grinned, the expression somehow intimidating with his eye patch. "Mostly speculating on how you've been able to maintain your appearance on your own, of course."

"I've agreed to interview a nephew of hers," Coulson said, ignoring the sly comment. "He's untrained and he'll probably be worse than useless, but at least he'll stop the gossips."

Fury shrugged. "Your set loves to gossip. They'll find something else to talk about as soon as you hire him."

"Just be grateful that nobody expects you to keep a man around just to iron your shirts and knot your ties."

"I'm thankful for it every day," Fury said firmly. "Although some days, a life where all I have to worry about is my valet and my housekeeper would be preferable to my job."

Coulson took a small sip of his brandy and tried to appear casual. "Are you still no closer to catching the vigilante?"

"Fuck no," Fury said. "And he delivered another neatly wrapped present to my department two weeks ago that we're still filling out the paperwork on. Not that I have time to do anything about catching him when I'm pulling bodies out of the Thames every couple of days."

"Bodies?" Coulson asked.

"The newspapers don't have this yet," Fury warned. "We've managed to keep it quiet so far."

"My lips are sealed."

"If I see this on the front page of the _Telegraph_ , you'll be the man I blame whether you talked to them or not."

"I'll take that risk," Coulson said.

Fury sighed and sank down a little in his chair. "Buy me a drink, then. I'll need it, this one is twisted. First one washed up a couple of weeks ago and we've had two more since."

Coulson signalled to Evans, who was standing unobtrusively near the door, and settled in to listen with an expression carefully gauged to convey interest but not too much interest.

***

It was well after midnight when Coulson left the club and hailed a hansom cab. He made a show of looking slightly drunk when he collected his coat and hat, but any hints of tipsiness left the moment he settled into his seat. The driver gave him a knowing look when Coulson gave his directions and flicked his whip to get the horse into a quick trot. At this time of night the streets of London weren't deserted, but most of the traffic was from horse-drawn carriages and cabs instead of the noisy steam cars that had begun to dominate the roads over the last few years. The familiar clop of hooves on stone and the rattle of the wheels were soothing and familiar. If Coulson hadn't been tense with anticipation, he probably would have drifted to sleep from the gentle sway of the carriage and the rhythmic sounds of its progress.

He smelled the docks before the cab reached them, that stench of rotting seaweed and mud so thick in the air it might have made him retch if he hadn't been used to it. The hansom rolled to a stop in a street that was still brightly lit and filled with people laughing raucously and stumbling into gutters. Coulson pretended to miss his footing as he clambered out of the cab and handed up his payment to the driver. He received a lewd wink and a grin and then the vehicle rattled away.

A girl in a shabby dress approached him almost before the cab had turned the corner. She grinned up at him, revealing two missing front teeth, and Coulson shook his head firmly. There was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she moved on and Coulson resisted the urge to call her back, give her some money anyway. She'd probably spend it on gin or something stronger and go back to the streets the moment her coin ran out. In the early days he'd tried to help that way, until he'd realised that he could spend all his money and never make more than the smallest dent in the problem.

Coulson passed brothels and taverns as he made his way down the street, ignoring the pleas and flirtatious glances from the women standing in doorways and hanging out of windows as much as he could. There'd been a time when he'd visited streets like this, trying to make himself feel the way other men did, but he'd realised quickly it wouldn't work. When he'd served in the army, he'd become known as the officer who was too good for the local whores and too prudish for a mistress. After the army, when he'd been searching for a way to do some good in the world, he'd remembered his early years and briefly thought about standing for Parliament. That was supposed to be the way men made a difference, but he'd lost his appetite for the idea after meeting some of his father's old friends and concluding that the only way to get anywhere in politics was to become as corrupt as they were. So he'd chosen a different way instead.

The noise and bright lights faded behind him as Coulson drew closer to the docks and entered the quieter warehouse district. Here the street lamps had been put out hours ago and the smell of tar and oil almost overwhelmed the rotting seaweed reek.

During daylight hours these streets would be busy with carts and dockworkers but now they were empty. Coulson ducked into an alley and through a narrow door into a room he'd been renting for the last few weeks. It was damp and the walls were rotting but it was good enough to store the odds of clothing and equipment he'd needed over the last few weeks. He drew a bag from its hiding place behind a broken crate and began pulling out clothes. Within a few minutes, respectable Mr Philip Coulson of Walden Square had been replaced by a man dressed all in black, from his bag-like cloth mask and old hat to his long canvas coat. The bag, now filled with his evening clothes, was pushed back behind the crate with his good hat placed carefully on top.

Coulson jogged through the maze of streets and alleys around the warehouses until he arrived at his target. Everything was silent and still, exactly as he'd planned, but he took several minutes to watch from an alley anyway just in case. Satisfied that there was nobody around, he darted out and ran to crouch under a metal staircase that led up the side of the building he was interested in. No alarms were raised, everything stayed quiet.

Soft as a cat, Coulson moved out and began padding silently up the metal staircase. His rubber-soled shoes made no noise and a casual observer might have though the dark shape moving up the side of the warehouse was just a shadow, perhaps from a cloud crossing the moon far overhead.

He ignored the door at the top of the staircase. It was chained shut from the inside and there was no point in even trying it. People never considered windows, though, especially if the window was above a thirty foot drop and only a mad man would try to edge along a narrow ledge to get to it.

Coulson wasn't mad, but he had an excellent sense of balance and no fear of heights so the ledge and window were no trial to him. He was inside in moments, crouching while he listened for any sign that he'd been heard when he dropped lightly to the floor.

There was no sound and Coulson took a careful deep breath, trying to let some of the tension bleed away. Everything was going smoothly, too smoothly, and that always made him nervous.

The room he'd broken into was filled with bits of broken furniture and empty crates. He moved silently through it and paused at the door, listening for a long moment, before slipping out into the hallway beyond. Out there he was blind, no windows to let in even the faint moonlight, and so he pulled a small electric lamp from his deep coat pocket. It only took a minute to crank the handle set into the base until a small bulb slowly flickered alight on the top, giving just enough light so he didn't trip over anything. The office he needed was further down on the other side of the hallway and it was unlocked, which meant nobody had noticed that he'd broken in the last time. Coulson smiled to himself and pressed a switch to put a shutter over the lamp before he opened the door and went inside.

Moonlight flooded this office from a wide window so it was easy, fast work to find the hidden compartment under the desk and replace the ledger he'd 'borrowed' last night. Coulson was back in the storeroom a few minutes later, silently congratulating himself on a successful night, when he heard a noise.

It was coming from downstairs and Coulson's heart raced. Nobody was supposed to be in the warehouse tonight. According to the information he'd gathered, it should be another two days before the opium was due to be collected. He'd timed this perfectly, intending to deliver the evidence to Scotland Yard in an unmarked parcel so Fury and his men could raid the place while the contraband was still here.

And now there was someone downstairs.

Coulson debated with himself for a moment before giving into curiosity and going back in to the hallway. This time he didn't open the shutter on his lamp, relying on his memory and sense of direction to quietly creep down the hall to the inner staircase. He was halfway down when he noticed the darkness was slowly giving away to a brightening light. Coulson froze and ducked down, blood thundering in his ears.

Three men were at the far end of the warehouse holding up oil lamps. From his vantage point Coulson could see over the crates and boxes, and he watched as the men argued in hushed, vicious tones. Their voices were too low for Coulson to make out words but their gestures were enough to tell him that two of the men were protesting at something the third was telling them. They were dressed as dockworkers and Coulson was too far away to see their faces clearly, although he was fairly certain that wouldn't have helped: he'd been watching the men in charge, memorising their names and faces, not the labourers they employed.

He hoped that wouldn't be a costly mistake.

Coulson hardly dared to breathe as he watched the men argue, afraid to move in case it gave his position away. The one who had been trying to give orders turned away and that proved to be fatal: one of the other men picked up something that looked long and heavy and clubbed him over the head with it. A moment later, the other men flung their lamps deep into the piles of boxes and ran.

Flames flared up, catching and consuming the wood with hungry ferocity. They spread fast, much faster than they should, and Coulson swore under his breath. This was a complication he hadn't expected.

He began to turn, intending to retreat the way he'd come, but a glimpse of movement caught his eye and he stopped. Something had moved under the rickety stairs. The warehouse should have been empty, no guards had ever been stationed, but Coulson heard a quiet cough and he couldn't leave until he'd checked.

He called himself ten kinds of fool and ran down the stairs. There was no sense in concealing himself anymore; the flames were racing through the warehouse and anyone who might have been able to see him through the smoke was long gone. Not everyone, he corrected himself, but everyone who had legitimate business in the warehouse.

In the red light of the fire, Coulson was able to see a dark shape crawling out from behind the boxes that had been stacked below the stairs. He couldn't make out much detail, only that it was a man with broad shoulders and a battered bowler hat pulled low on his brow. The man wasn't wearing a jacket or a tie, not even a collar, and he reared back as Coulson approached.

"We need to get out of here," Coulson said, shouting to be heard out over the roar of approaching flames.

"I'd figured that out already," the man said. "What the fuck did you do?"

There was a hint of an American accent in his voice. He started to turn back to the boxes under the stairs but Coulson caught his arm, trying to tug him away.

"There's no time," Coulson tried again. "We need to get out."

"Not without my stuff," the man shouted.

He threw off Coulson's hand and dived between the boxes, emerging a moment later with a duffle bag and a long, thin leather case. The air was getting too hot and Coulson knew they didn't really have time for this but the man was clutching his things with white-knuckled hands and Coulson somehow knew that those bags were all he had in the world.

"How did you get in?" he asked.

The man nodded to a door set in the wall opposite the bottom of the stairs. "Through there. It was unlocked, figured this would be a good place to spend the night. Didn't count on you burning the fucking warehouse down."

"It wasn't me," Coulson said.

"Warehouse burning down around me and a man in a black mask," the man said with a shrug. "Not hard to put it all together."

Coulson ignored him and ran over to the door. The flames were getting closer, fuelled now by bales of fabric that made perfect fodder for their hunger. When he'd been watching the warehouse this door had usually been locked and he'd never considered it as an access for his night-time visits. Apparently someone had forgotten to lock it earlier. Coulson tried the door and swore under his breath: the handle turned easily but it refused to open and he could hear the rattle of chains when he tried to push.

He hurried back to the stairs and began to climb. "We can't get out that way, we'll have to get out the way I came in."

"Up there?" the man asked incredulously.

Coulson didn't reply, he just ran. Up the stairs, through the hallway that was now lit by the flames from below, and into the storeroom filled with broken things. He was halfway out of the window when the stranger stumbled through the door, coughing and swearing like a sailor. The thick mask was keeping the worse of the smoke and fumes out of Coulson's mouth but the other man didn't have that protection.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man asked.

"Nobody you need to know," Coulson said as he finished climbing out of the window and balanced carefully on the ledge. "Give me your case, you won't be able to carry all of that."

The hat still shadowed the other man's eyes but Coulson could feel the reluctance as he hesitated and finally nodded. "Don't drop it."

"I'll try."

Coulson had to keep all his concentration on edging along the narrow ledge, clinging to the wall with the leather case constantly trying to throw his balance off. He didn't see his companion climbing out of the window with the duffle bag because all his focus was on reaching the platform at the top of the metal stairs. When he'd finally clambered over the railing around it, he turned in time to see the stranger calmly moving along the ledge as though he did this kind of thing every day.

Maybe he did. Coulson was trying not to feel any curiosity about him and failing miserably.

He jumped over the railing easily and there was a fierce grin on his grimy face when he turned to Coulson.

"You're kind of crazy," he said. "That...that is not something normal people do."

Coulson shrugged and began jogging down the stairs. The wall of the warehouse was warm to Coulson's touch, even through his black gloves, which was a very bad sign. He could hear the clang of the other man's boots on the metal as he followed and Coulson ran faster, almost jumping down some of the steps.

"I guess crazy goes with the black mask and the burning," the other man said as he clattered behind Coulson. "Jesus fuck, they said England would be boring. I would have preferred boring."

There was a loud whoosh and then the night sky was lit up by flames as the roof of the warehouse fell in. Coulson swore and jumped the final few stairs, unsurprised when the stranger did the same, and then they were running. They were halfway down the street when the staircase collapsed with a loud ringing crash and they were rounding a corner when there was a loud boom followed by the distinctive fizzle and crackle of fireworks going off.

"Figures there'd be a fireworks depot next door," the stranger shouted. "Where are we going?"

Coulson jogged to a stop and turned around, waiting until his temporary charge also slowed and halted not far away. The stranger's clothes were dark with soot and his eyes glittered in the shadow of his hat. In the bright moonlight, Coulson could see outline of muscular arms under his shirt and the sweat glistening on his throat where he hadn't done up all the buttons. Coulson's eyes lingered there for a moment before he shook himself and sent up a silent thank you for the concealing mask.

" _We're_ not going anywhere," Coulson said firmly. "I'm going one way, you're going a different way. We won't meet again. Good night."

He held out the leather case and the stranger took it wordlessly. Coulson didn't turn around, didn't look back, as he jogged away and began the process of slowly retracing his path back to his clothing drop and then home.

No footsteps followed him and Coulson breathed a silent sigh of relief that he'd avoided that particular complication. The last thing he needed was a stray following him home.


	2. Chapter 2

_London, March 4th, 1908_

When Coulson awoke the next morning, he was stiff and sore enough to wish he'd already hired a new valet who could bring coffee and draw him a bath while he gradually woke up. As there was no new valet yet, he had to manage everything for himself instead. He slowly rolled over and sat up, feeling all the muscles in his back cry out and protest at the movement. Sitting on the edge of the bed while he carefully stretched out all the kinks made him feel like an arthritic old man and Coulson wondered, not for the first time, how much longer he'd be able to clamber around in burning buildings. It was a slightly depressing thought and he pushed it firmly away before it could take root anywhere.

He had carefully hung his clothes from last night in front of an open window in an attempt to air out the worst of the smoke smell. No doubt Mrs Driver would be horrified that he'd slept with an open window again, but Coulson had elected to ignore her grumblings on the dangers of night air to his health for the last twenty years and he didn't plan to change. Hopefully her nephew by marriage hadn't picked up any of her odder notions.

The air in the room was chilly and Coulson hadn't bothered to put on pyjamas after he'd stripped out of his clothes last night, so goosebumps quickly rose on his skin without the protection of heavy blankets and quilt. His hips and knees ached as he stood up and he stretched carefully again before pulling on a warm robe and starting the business of making himself presentable to the household.

Even in his tiny household of himself, Mrs Driver and occasionally her niece, there were proprieties to be followed.

He settled for washing the grime and soot off his skin and hair in cold water instead of bathing and he was shivering by the time he dressed. As he struggled into his jacket, he heard the familiar clatter of Mrs Driver going about her daily tasks downstairs. A light, cheerful voice sometimes floated up that he recognised as Daisy's, already hard at work learning the quirks of the Coulson house.

The scent of toast and bacon filled his nose when he arrived in the dining room, wafting from the covered dishes on the sideboard. Mrs Driver always insisted on presenting breakfast as if they were catering to half a dozen gentlemen instead of one and Coulson had given up on persuading her not to years ago. Hopefully he'd be able to train the new valet to be moderate.

It was a comforting thought as he spooned eggs and bacon onto a plate and poured fresh coffee into a cup. He took both to the table and began methodically eating while he read through his post.

There was a long missive from Sitwell, which would probably take most of the morning to respond to and Coulson had a feeling he'd need to visit the estate soon. As competent as Sitwell was, sometimes Coulson needed to see things for himself to make decisions. After he finished that there were two letters from old friends mixed with half a dozen invites to card parties and 'intimate suppers' that were probably only intimate in the sense that fewer than forty people would be there.

Coulson finished his breakfast with several slices of cold, floppy toast and another cup of coffee, casting regretful glances at the dishes of eggs and bacon he'd barely made a dent in. He would definitely be training his new valet to prepare breakfast for one if the valet could be trained. Breakfast finished, he retreated to his study with his letters and a last cup of coffee to spend the morning writing.

He'd learned many years ago that half of a gentleman's life could easily be engaged with letter writing. It made some of his other activates much easier to hide if it just looked like he was a gentleman with an active correspondence instead of, for example, a gentleman searching ledgers for hidden money or putting together a paper trail to forward to Scotland Yard.

It was late morning before anyone interrupted and Coulson had managed to deal with his estate manager and all the party invitations. Most of the latter had been politely worded 'no's but he'd made sure to accept a couple of the less tedious-sounding ones so nobody thought he was turning into a hermit and stopped inviting him to anything. He was rereading a letter from an old army friend when he heard a knock at the front door followed by Mrs Driver's footsteps hurrying past his study. The quiet murmur of voices in the hall was indistinct and Coulson ignored it until there was a knock at the door to his study. Tucking the letter back into its envelope, he called for his visitor to enter and Mrs Driver opened the door. She was carrying a tea tray and Coulson could see a dark figure in the hallway behind her, standing back cautiously.

There was something about the way the man held his shoulders that sparked a moment of recognition but it was gone before Coulson could trace it.

"Your tea, sir," Mrs Driver said, holding the tray slightly higher.

Coulson gestured to a corner of his desk that was free of papers and smiled at her. "Thank you, Mrs Driver."

She put down the tray and stepped back with a determined expression. "My nephew is here, sir. We discussed it yesterday, for the position as your valet?"

"I remember," Coulson said mildly. "Call him in."

She didn't need to call him in: the figure in the hallway stepped into the study as soon as he spoke and Coulson had to hide his surprise. The stranger now wore a collar, tie and jacket - all showing signs of wear and careful repair - but the face under the battered bowler hat was that of the man Coulson had rescued from the burning warehouse.

In the daylight Coulson could see that his eyes were a shifting colour between green and blue and there was something about the way his lips quirked that hinted at mischief. Mrs Driver nudged him sharply with her elbow and the man quickly took off his hat and held it between his hands, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to twist the brim nervously. His hair was dark blond and roughly cut, his trousers were threadbare and Coulson would be willing to bet that his shoes had holes in the soles.

In short, he was the picture of everything a valet shouldn't be and Coulson liked him immediately.

Coulson studied him for a moment longer before asking, "What's your name?"

The man stepped forward and bobbed something that might have been a bow if Coulson was being generous. "Clint Barton, sir."

There was that hint of an accent again, just enough to signal that he wasn't English, and Coulson could already imagine the gossip he'd inspire by taking on an American valet.

"Your aunt tells me you have no experience as a valet." Barton nodded and Coulson allowed him a small smile at the honesty. "What skills do you have that might be relevant?"

"I'm not a seamstress, but I can repair and look after most clothes," Barton said. "My aunt says that's an important part of valet work. I can cook, nothing fancy but good enough for every day food. And I'm a quick study."

"You understand that the duties a valet performs here aren't the same as a larger household?" Coulson asked. "I don't keep a butler or any other resident servants when I'm in London so you'll be working more as a combination of valet and butler and odd-job man here."

"I understand," Barton said. "I'm used to hard work."

Coulson raised an eyebrow at that but let it pass. "If you don't mind me asking, your aunt was a little vague about your background. How have you been employed in the past?"

There was a hint of wry amusement in Barton's eyes and in the way his lips twitched with a barely suppressed grin. "I was in the circus, sir."

There was a muffled sigh from Mrs Driver's direction and Coulson blinked a couple of times before reassuming his neutral expression.

"The circus?" he asked.

Barton nodded. "For most of my life, sir. I got sick a few months back, though, and by the time I was well enough again they'd moved on and I had no work. I've been moving around looking for something ever since. I remembered my aunt's address from letters to my parents when I was a kid. She's been helping where she could, but...well...here I am."

"What did you do in the circus?" Coulson asked curiously.

"A bit of everything," Barton said cheerfully. "Mostly I shot at things. With a bow."

There was another muffled groan from Mrs Driver that Coulson ignored. A background like that explained a few things, like Barton's sure-footed crossing of the narrow ledge last night. He'd be willing to put money on the leather case Barton had carried last night containing a bow.

"If I offered to employ you as my valet," Coulson said, "would that be a decision I'd regret?"

"That's a question between you and your higher power, sir," Barton said with a hint of a smirk. "All I can promise is to do my best."

Another brutally honest answer and Coulson couldn't help admiring Barton's dedication to telling the truth even if his answers would probably have seen him thrown out without a job in many other houses. It would be a refreshing change from Gowan's habit of only telling Coulson what he wanted to hear.

As he thought that, Coulson realised that he'd made his mind up already. Whether it was Barton's honesty or the intriguing hints of mischief and humour in his eyes, Coulson didn't know, but it was an oddly easy decision to make.

"Do you have many belongings to fetch?" he asked.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then a broad grin lit up Barton's face. "You mean I'm hired?"

Coulson smiled. "You're hired. I'll have a contract for you to sign this afternoon laying out the particulars. You can read, I assume?"

Barton shrugged. "I get by."

He made a note of that response and filed it away. "Usually the contract includes a new suit every year, but I would guess that you only own the suit you're wearing."

This time Barton's shrug and nod were wary, as though he was worried Coulson would retract the offer on the basis of his lack of suitable clothing.

"My previous valet might have left something behind," Coulson said carefully, "but he wasn't as broad across the shoulders as you."

"I might be able to let a jacket out," Barton said dubiously.

"No need." Coulson opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a banknote, noting the way Barton's eyes followed his motions without comment. "Take this. Mrs Driver can direct you, I'm sure."

There was only a brief hesitation before Barton nodded and took the money. "Thank you, sir. When will you need me to start?"

Even though it had to be obvious to a blind man that Barton had nowhere to stay and everything he owned was probably in a bag in the hallway, Coulson couldn't tell him that he knew. He sensed Barton didn't have much pride left and some instinct made him want to let Barton keep what he had.

Instead, Coulson asked, "How soon can you move in?"

"Today, if you want," Barton said immediately. "My current, ah, landlord doesn't need any notice."

"Why don't you get settled in today and find some suitable clothing," Coulson said. "I'll be dining at my club tonight, so you can start your proper duties tomorrow morning."

"I can do that, sir," Barton said. "I can definitely do that."

"Welcome to my household, Mr Barton," Coulson said.

The bright, grateful smile Barton gave him made something warm bloom in Coulson's chest and he couldn't entirely conceal an answering smile. Mrs Driver beamed happily at both of them and ushered Barton out, leaving Coulson to sip his tea and think.

This promised to either be the best or worst decision he'd ever made and he had no idea which way things would fall.

***

Later that evening, Coulson stared into the fire burning in one of the fireplaces in Chester's and allowed his thoughts to wander. The motion of the flames, twisting and snapping in a slight draught, were mesmerising and tempted his mind down paths he'd been trying not to follow all day. Paths like examining the reason he'd hired a man who could recognise his voice at any time. He suspected it had more to do with Barton's smile and eyes than any rational explanation and that wasn't a good thing for either of them.

The common room in the club was quieter than normal. Two members were playing a quiet game of chess in the far corner and Coulson had seen a few occupied tables as he passed the dining room. Otherwise the club seemed almost deserted. It wasn't unusual, but it wasn't like the old days when the place had been filled with idealistic men - and even the occasional woman, Chester's had always been liberal in their membership policies - loudly talking about how they'd remake the world.

Now Chester's was a more subdued place where some of the same men sat in the same chairs soberly discussing stock prices and technology with no hint that they'd ever had the fire and zeal to change the world.

The quiet suited Coulson tonight. He wanted to sit in his chair by the fire and think. The Barton problem, as he was starting to think of it, was something to consider another day. Maybe many days from now, when Barton finally recognised his voice. There was always the hope that would never happen.

It wasn't a realistic hope. Gowan had been surprisingly incurious about everything Coulson did, even the times when he came home with blood and dirt on his shirts. There had been a bright intelligence in Barton's eyes that told Coulson his new valet wasn't going to be as easily worked around. The day would probably come a lot sooner than he wanted and he still didn't want to think about why he was taking the risk.

What he needed to think on tonight was the rest of last night's disastrous break-in. The newspaper folded on his lap contained a brief article on the warehouse fire including the fact that a body had been discovered. On any other day it might have made the front page, but today there was the news of another body pulled out of the Thames so a simple warehouse fire had been sent to the bottom of the third page. Coulson read the article again and sighed.

The fire had brought his entire investigation to an abrupt, unexpected end. All the evidence was gone and he didn't think the men behind the operation would have the nerve to start it again in London any time soon. They'd move to another port, perhaps Liverpool or Bristol, and distribute the opium in a new way this time. No more bales of silk, they'd choose an unrelated product like antiquities that would turn just enough of a profit to disguise their real trade, and they'd be more discerning about their customers. They'd select opium dens that knew how to maintain a high degree of discretion and they'd keep their products away from the kinds of snake oil salesmen who used river water in tonics for children.

Coulson had absolutely no doubt that the men behind the operation had already stepped into the new names and lives they would have had waiting for exactly this possibility. He'd been so sure nobody knew he had the ledgers. In fact, he was still sure of it. The little gang of watchers he'd put on the building had been quick to assure him that they hadn't seen anyone go in or out of the building until Barton slipped in to sleep and then the three dockworkers arrived.

Perhaps he'd just been unlucky enough to be at the warehouse on the night they'd chosen to wind up their affairs anyway. Maybe the men working this small part of the opium trade had always intended to destroy their last shipment last night and disappear and he'd just been caught out by some bad timing.

The worst part of the whole mess was the knowledge that he'd probably never find the two men who set the fire or learn who they'd murdered. Their bosses would be gone already, untraceable, and Coulson had been too far away to see more than the outline of their bodies. He'd been so close to the final capture and now it had all slipped through his fingers.

Tomorrow he would put all the evidence he'd kept - pathetic and incomplete as it was - and send it to Fury's team in Scotland Yard. It wasn't much and they wouldn't be able to act on it, but at least he'd be able to feel vaguely satisfied that he'd done his best.

A quiet cough pulled Coulson out of his thoughts and he blinked as he turned away from the fireplace.

Evans stood at a polite distance from his chair with a note on a small silver plate. Coulson took it and nodded his thanks, waiting until Evans had moved away before opening the envelope. He read the single sheet quickly and for the first time all evening he smiled.

At least Fury was having a better evening than he was. The person dumping bodies in the Thames had been arrested and he'd be spending the night interrogating his man.

Coulson threw the note in the fire and stood up, his back cracking and aching as he stretched it out after the long hours of silent thought. Restless energy buzzed under his skin despite last night's exercise and Coulson knew he couldn't go to bed yet. He'd change in one of his nearby clothing stashes and take a patrol around some of his old haunts to see what kind of trouble he could get into to burn it off. There were some streets he hadn't checked on for months and he felt some of the restlessness transform into anticipation at the thought of an old-fashioned, uncomplicated fight with whatever footpad was foolish enough to be out.

***

Morning brought sudden bright sunlight and the smell of coffee. Coulson shielded his eyes and groaned as he rolled over. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the shape of someone tying back his curtains and his memory returned.

He'd hired a new valet and Mrs Driver must have instructed him on Gowan's old standing orders. Coulson had completely forgotten about the new valet last night, which was why he hadn't bothered with pyjamas before sliding into bed or discussed his preferred rising time and light levels. This had the potential to be embarrassing for both of them and Coulson had to stifle another groan at the thought.

There was a soft chuckle from the windows. "Good morning, sir."

Coulson squinted and finally managed to get his eyes focussed properly. Barton was slightly more appropriately dressed for a valet today - he had a new tie and collar at least - but he wasn't wearing a jacket and he'd rolled his shirtsleeves up almost to his elbows. His exposed forearms were lightly tanned with a hint of the ropey muscle Coulson remembered from the warehouse and Coulson blamed his lack of sleep for the way his heart seemed to be beating faster at the sight. The other explanation for it was a dangerous way to start thinking.

Someone had trimmed Barton's shaggy hair into a shorter, neater style and he'd obviously made an effort to tame it down. If he'd been wearing a jacket, he might almost have looked the part.

Except valets weren't supposed to chuckle at their employers or look at them with laughter in their eyes. And they definitely weren't supposed to let their gaze drop to their employers' chest when the covers slipped down or suddenly cough and look away after.

"My aunt told me you like coffee when you wake up," Barton said, moving across the room to fetch the tray he'd left by the door. "Is that still right?"

"It is," Coulson said, his voice sounding hoarse to his ears. He cleared his throat. "I see you were able to find part of your new suit yesterday."

Barton shrugged self-consciously. "The jacket needs to be adjusted for my shoulders. We couldn't make anything fit well enough otherwise. It'll be ready later this morning."

Eyeing Barton's broad shoulders and the way his sleeves pulled tight around his biceps, Coulson nodded his understanding. Adjusting a jacket was a much more complex task than repairing a few buttons so it was sensible to let a tailor take care of it. He suspected any jackets that had fitted Barton's shoulders had made Mrs Driver wince due to the rest of the fit.

"I'm not expecting company today, so nobody will notice," Coulson said.

"Thank you, sir," Barton said with a relieved smile. "My aunt was worried."

"That I'd throw you out on your ear because you weren't fully dressed?" Coulson asked dryly. "It would take a lot more than a missing jacket to make me fire you on your first day."

"But a missing jacket on my third day might be a firing offence?"

"Definitely."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Coulson was surprised to feel a smile tugging at his mouth, an answer to the teasing grin Barton was giving him, and he should probably tell Barton this wasn't how valets talked to their employers but he couldn't.

"See that you do," Coulson said lightly. "And I'll make sure that I remember my pyjamas in the future. Sorry about this, I'm not normally so forgetful."

"You haven't got anything I haven't seen before," Barton said quickly and then he winced. "Uh, sir. That didn't come out right. Sorry."

"It's already forgotten," Coulson said.

For a moment, Barton looked like he was going to apologise again. He couldn't seem to look at Coulson, his gaze was fixed firmly just above Coulson's head, and it was impossible to tell whether the hint of redness in his face was embarrassment or something else. Coulson sighed and pushed himself upright, pulling the covers up as far as he could so he didn't embarrass Barton any further.

"Perhaps you'd better let me drink my coffee," Coulson said. "What else did Mrs Driver tell you about my morning routine?"

Barton carefully set the tray down across Coulson's lap and poured the coffee, leaving Coulson to add cream and sugar to his taste. Coulson took a small sip and lifted his eyebrows in pleased surprise before taking a larger mouthful. Apparently making good coffee was one of Barton's skills. It hadn't been one of Gowan's.

"She said you don't read the paper until you're eating breakfast downstairs," Barton said, stepping back until he was level with the end of the bed. "And you prefer to bathe in the morning. Your last valet used to draw your bath while you drank your coffee and woke up."

"She's right so far. Anything else?"

"You don't like to be dressed by anyone, but you do sometimes ask for help with your tie and coat." Barton frowned. "I sort of know how to knot a tie, but nothing fancy."

"You can probably pick things up as we go," Coulson said reassuringly.

Barton didn't look convinced but he carried on with his recitation of Mrs Driver's wisdom. "You usually shave yourself, but for special occasions your previous valet did it. That, I know how to do."

"Good to hear."

"And that's about it, sir."

"Mrs Driver was thorough."

"I think she's worried I'll make the family look bad," Barton said with surprising honesty. "I don't exactly have the kinds of skills that are useful anywhere."

Coulson could think of half a dozen ways the skills he'd probably picked up in the circus would be useful, but he held his tongue. The surefooted way Barton had crossed the ledge and his lack of concern over heights had to be legacies from his days under the big top. There weren't many legal ways Coulson could think of to earn money where those would be useful skills. Plenty of illegal ways, certainly, and highly profitable if Barton had been inclined in that direction. He'd been sleeping in whatever sheltered spots he could find, though, so Coulson suspected Barton wasn't that kind of person. If he had been then they'd never have met at the warehouse.

"I don't think Mrs Driver has anything to worry about," Coulson said, raising his cup. "If you keep brewing coffee like this, I won't be able to fire you."

The expression of surprised happiness in Barton's eyes made Coulson think he hadn't received much praise before. He chose not to examine why that thought made something tug in his chest.

"I'll draw your bath now, sir, if that's alright?" Barton said, shifting uncomfortably.

He was gone before Coulson could say anything. They would probably need to discuss the way Barton addressed him at some stage - valets were supposed to cultivate a respectful manner with their employers - but Coulson decided that could wait until Barton was more comfortable about his duties.

Coulson drank his coffee and gradually felt more awake. He'd finished his second cup and carefully put the tray aside so he could rise and pull on a robe when a knock heralded Barton's return.

Tonight he was definitely going to remember pyjamas.

He wrapped the robe quickly and tied the belt, feeling oddly flustered when he turned around and found Barton conspicuously staring at the ceiling.

"Your bath's ready, sir," Barton said without looking at him. "Will you need anything else?"

"I think I can manage to wash myself," Coulson said dryly, trying to ignore the startled grin Barton shot him. "I'll call you if I need anything else."

"I'll be in the kitchen," Barton said.

"Mrs Driver has trusted you with breakfast already?"

"I don't think she's going to trust me with anything more complex than the toast, but I have to start somewhere." There was another mischievous grin. "My toasting skills are pretty advanced, though."

"I look forward to sampling them," Coulson said, before leaving as fast as he could without sacrificing dignity.

He'd never had a problem resisting the urge to tease with Gowan but he appeared to be completely failing with Barton so far.

***

Breakfast was unmistakably Mrs Driver's work, but the toast that arrived just as Coulson was scraping his plate and vaguely wishing for more coffee didn't have Mrs Driver's usual charred corners and floppy texture. It was hot and crisp and Coulson smiled his appreciation as Barton poured coffee.

"Your toast skills are as good as you promised," he said.

Barton grinned. "My aunt seems convinced that a toasting machine is the only way to make good toast. I think she's hoping I'll persuade you to invest in one."

Coulson barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Mrs Driver has been trying to convince me to invest in every new gadget and invention that's appeared on the market for the last five years. No matter how many time I tell her about the safety records of the devices and how often they seem to blow up or malfunction, she still leaves catalogues and leaflets on my desk at least once a month. But she refuses to trust the electric lights because she can't see the steam coming out of them."

"I guess that means you won't need me to learn how to drive a steam car, then."

"Probably not." Coulson pointed at a photograph in his paper showing the twisted metal body of a steam car that had exploded somewhere in Yorkshire. "Not until there's a reasonable guarantee that won't happen."

Barton leaned over to study the picture for a moment and winced. "I see your point. Makes no difference to me, sir - we didn't bother with gadgets in the circus. I heard Carson bought an automaton for the heavy lifting after I left but none of that shi-...uh, stuff is portable enough when you're on the move all the time."

"I hadn't considered that," Coulson said thoughtfully.

"You learn to travel light in the circus." Barton shrugged. "I guess that's not something I have to worry about if I'm turning respectable." He straightened up and stepped away, back to a distance where Coulson couldn't feel the warmth of Barton's body against shoulder. "Do you need anything else?"

"Not for now," Coulson said, his attention already back on searching the newspaper for any further information about the warehouse fire. "Thank you, Barton."

There was a sound that might have been a quietly muttered "no problem" and then the door closed, leaving Coulson to finish his toast and newspaper alone.

Coulson didn't see Barton again until lunch. He worked quietly in his study all day, catching up on the paperwork that a profitable estate generated even with a good manager and then trying to focus on some reading. Someone came to the door in the middle of the morning and Coulson heard the soft sound of voices, Barton's slight accent standing out even though he couldn't make out individual words. The door closed a minute later with a quiet click and Mrs Driver appeared with tea and the late post not long after.

She frowned at the books on his desk and the glasses he was wearing but she didn't say anything. Mrs Driver had strong views on single gentlemen who didn't spend their lives idly playing cards and promenading in Hyde Park. Her views were old-fashioned, in Coulson's opinion, but she was good at making them known without even saying a word.

When Barton served lunch, Coulson raised an eyebrow at his still jacketless state. Barton shrugged uncomfortably.

"Something happened at the shop this morning, sir," he said. "My jacket isn't ready. Apparently their new cutting automaton caused some problems."

"Problems?"

"I didn't get all the details, sir, there were too many people crowding round the area to get near it, but the word is that the automaton destroyed everything in the shop." Barton smiled. "My aunt threw out the catalogue she was planning to give you before she left."

"If it was the one for the butler robots, then I'm grateful," Coulson said. "Perhaps you should try another shop for a jacket."

"Already in hand," Barton said easily. "I'll be picking something up after breakfast tomorrow."

"Good to hear."

"My aunt will be relieved when I have the right clothes."

There was that grin again, the one that invited Coulson to share the joke even though it was inappropriate. After less than a day, Coulson already had the strong impression that Barton was many things but appropriate wasn't one of them.

"Are you planning to eat at home tonight?" Barton asked before he carried away the lunch dishes.

"I am." A thought occurred and Coulson nodded to himself. "I'll be going to my club after, though. Can you arrange for a cab?"

"Sure," Barton said. "I mean, yes sir. I can do that."

This time Coulson couldn't completely restrain his smile and he didn't try. "Thank you, Barton."

Barton smiled and left without saying anything else. Coulson stared blankly at the rich wood of his dining room table for a while, deep in thought, before retreating to his study again.

***

Coulson carefully examined the lock on the door at the back of the tailor's shop. He'd gone to the club just as he'd told Barton he planned, but he'd only stayed for a few of minutes before leaving in search of "livelier entertainment" and letting the doorman think whatever he wanted about what kind of entertainment he'd be seeking. There was a small room several streets away from Chester's that he'd rented for years. It was out of the way and discreet with its own entrance partway down a smelly alley and the landlord didn't ask questions as long as his money arrived through the post every month.

The room was damp and almost as smelly as the alley. Two metal boxes were the only furniture, the kind of boxes designed to keep rats and smells out of the contents. Coulson had gone into the room as a respectable gentleman and emerged in the black uniform of his vigilante alter-ego, although he'd kept the mask in a pocket until he arrived at his destination. The hansom driver who picked him up would have been able to describe a bland man in dark clothes with a hat pulled low on his brow and nothing else. Certainly nothing to connect Coulson to the man in black.

He'd put the bag-like mask on as soon as the hansom had disappeared down the street. All the buildings here were shops and small offices and it was well after dark so nobody was around to see as Coulson had quietly padded down the narrow gap between the tailor's shop and its neighbour and then over the wall into the small backyard.

The front of the shop had been boarded over to hide whatever had happened inside. Someone had even bolted a complex lock onto the door, its brass covering shining bright in the moonlight. A good crowbar would wrench the lock away from the door so it was obviously only for show, but Coulson didn't intend to let anyone know the shop had been broken into.

As he'd anticipated, the police had focussed all their efforts on the front of the shop and forgotten completely about the back. He smiled to himself and pulled out his lock picks. It only took him a minute to open the door and slip inside.

The tailor and his family probably lived behind and above their shop. The room Coulson entered was a small kitchen and the remains of breakfast were still on the table, now cold and congealed. One mug lay on its side, the contents glistening in the pale moonlight streaming in from the room's one window. Coulson touched a gloved finger to the puddle and tasted it, confirming it was just tea.

Apart from the abandoned breakfast, nothing looked out of place. A staircase led to the family's bedrooms and Coulson made a mental note to come back to that if necessary, but his attention was on the door that led into the working part of the building.

No light came in through the boarded windows and as soon as the door closed, Coulson was blind. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his lamp, winding the small crank until its bulb flickered into life and cast a dim light around the room. Under normal circumstances, it was probably a busy little shop. A counter divided the room in half, with the back half mostly taken up by a large cutting table and a couple of work tables for sewing. The front half would have been surrounded by bolts of fabric and displays of shirts and partially completed suits, with mirrors in the corners and a small, curtained area for patrons to change in. Not as large or prosperous as the tailors Coulson used, but more than adequate for most men looking to alter a suit or purchase something a little better than ready-made.

However, the dim light also revealed something far more disturbing. Shredded fabric was strewn around the shop and some of the shelves and racks had been torn from the walls and smashed to splinters. Something had driven all the shop's scissors into the wood of the cutting table and one of the worktables looked like a shiny, prickly hedgehog due to the number of needles and pins sprouting from the surface.

As Coulson moved around the shop, stepping carefully so he didn't disturb the debris, he realised that every bolt of fabric had been torn or cut into pieces. Some had just been torn into huge chunks but there were fine, almost dust-like scraps of material everywhere as well. Even the completed shirts and suits had been attacked, which explained why Barton hadn't been able to retrieve his original jacket.

The level of destruction was incredible. It was as though something had tried to systematically tear apart everything in the shop, starting with the clothes and material and then escalating to ripping the fabric of the building apart when those targets ran out. Coulson methodically examined every corner of the shop, feeling more incredulous with every new sign of destruction his lamp exposed.

He was examining the shattered remains of a rack, shining his lamp along the broken dowels, when he noticed something glinting under a pile of ribbon-like green wool. He moved closer so he could nudge the object free of the tangle with his toe.

It was a brass cog. Coulson crouched and carefully extracted it. There were cogs like it in any number of devices but he couldn't help thinking it was significant. Coulson pocketed the cog and continued his examination, finding two more and a heavy brass bolt before he finished.

He also found a small patch of dried blood next to the cutting table. It was hard to tell in the faint yellow light from his lamp, but Coulson was almost sure that it was fresh. Less than a day old, if he guessed right.

The blood could be pure coincidence. Perhaps the tailor or one of his assistants had cut his hand before the shop was destroyed.

Coulson didn't believe in coincidences that were too convenient. Not when a second inspection of the shop's wreckage revealed smears of blood under a worktable and a bloody handprint on the wall under the counter. If he'd been a betting man, he would have laid money that people had been hiding under the tables and counter.

People who were injured and bleeding in the middle of a shop being torn apart.

He turned around slowly in the middle of the shop one last time and frowned. There were marks on the floor, scratches in the wood that he'd seen before but he couldn't recall where. They didn't look like the kind of deep gouges that had been dug into the wooden counter. These were thinner, tracing in every direction, as though something had been scraping regularly at the floor for months.

The evening was growing late when Coulson finally put out the lamp and left the shop, locking the door behind him.

***

A lamp had been left on in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs when Coulson got home. He smiled as he took off his coat and hat and put them away, trying to make no noise that might wake anyone. It had been months since he'd come home at the end of the night to a house that wasn't empty and he suspected it might take a while to get used to little things like lamps left on.

Another one had been left on upstairs, its light sending down enough illumination to see by even if he turned off the one downstairs. Coulson turned off the lamp on the table and was just about to climb up to his bed when he noticed a faint glow from the end of the hall. He frowned and changed direction, trying to move quietly even though he wasn't wearing the rubber-soled shoes he used on his night-time excursions.

The light came from the kitchen and Coulson couldn't help smiling when he pushed the door open and found Barton asleep in a chair in the corner. It was an ancient armchair, at least thirty years old, and Coulson had no doubt that it was uncomfortably hard and worn from long use. Maybe he should arrange for a new one.

Barton had slumped down in the chair and his head was tilted back. The jacket he'd finally managed to buy had been draped carefully over the back of a wooden chair with his tie set neatly on top. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows again and undone the top few buttons of his shirt. The edges of the shirt had parted as he shifted in his sleep to reveal a wide expanse of strong, smooth chest and Coulson made a mental note to talk to Barton about the impropriety of sitting around half dressed in his employer's kitchen.

Later. He would discuss it later.

Definitely tomorrow, Coulson told himself.

He had to swallow twice because his mouth had gone dry. There had never been this kind of problem with Gowan.

Barton seemed to realise that he was being watched because he suddenly shifted in his chair and blinked sleepily. A soft smile curving Barton's lips made Coulson's breath catch in his throat and his face felt warm as he realised that he'd been caught.

"Hello, sir," Barton said, his voice thick and husky from sleep.

"Did I forget to tell you not to wait up?" Coulson said quietly. "I can manage on my own."

"You forgot," Barton confirmed with a grin. "And my aunt explained in great detail that a good valet doesn't sleep until his employer is in bed and doesn't need him. She was very firm, particularly about the importance of properly hanging your clothes."

"In the future," Coulson said, "I don't expect you to wait up if I'm going to be late. I'm perfectly capable of hanging my own jacket."

Barton shrugged, the movement pulling at his shirt and doing interesting things to the hint of muscle under his collar. Coulson pretended he wasn't looking.

"I don't mind waiting up. We didn't exactly go to sleep with the sun in the circus." Barton sat up straighter and scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it escape his careful combing down to stand on end. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"Not tonight," Coulson said, suddenly feeling the weight of his exhaustion crashing down. "Get some sleep, Barton. That's an order."

There was a cheerful grin on Barton's face as he stood up and made a casually sloppy salute. "Yes, sir."

Coulson knew he should probably have that talk about how to properly address an employer, but he felt a smile pulling at his mouth and he couldn't. It would be another entry on his list of things to talk about another day.

"Good night," he said instead.

Barton's soft "goodnight" followed him up the stairs and Coulson couldn't completely wipe the smile away. It stayed as he changed into pyjamas, hid the tiny cogs in a box, and put his clothes away neatly. The memory of Barton's sleepy smile and husky voice made heat curl low in his gut and Coulson had to force his thoughts back to his discoveries at the shop to make the warmth go away.

He was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to look Barton in the eye if he gave in to temptation, even if it was only in the privacy of his own mind and bed.

Instead he made himself work through all the possibilities of what had happened to the tailor and eventually slipped into dreams of brass gears and red blood.


	3. Chapter 3

_London, March 31st, 1908_

Coulson tipped his head back slightly to give Barton better access to his neck. There was a look of intense concentration on Barton's face. His eyes were narrowed, the irises hidden by his ridiculously long eyelashes, and he was frowning slightly and pursing his lips as if this was the most important and difficult task he'd ever attempted.

Fingertips roughened by years of manual work brushed Coulson's throat as Barton carefully passed the ends of a tie over and around to form a knot. The slight touch sent warm shivers across Coulson's skin that he made himself ignore.

Barton tugged and smoothed the tie, his fingers brushing Coulson's throat again as he nudged the collar straight. There was a hopeful smile on his face when he finally straightened and stepped back.

"Is this right, sir?" he asked.

Coulson moved closer to his mirror and examined Barton's work carefully. The ends of the black tie were almost even this time and the knot might be passable...if everyone he met was blind and knew nothing about fashion, ties, and evening clothes. As he was dressing for an evening at Chester's, that was unlikely. Even Evans would notice that the tie looked wrong.

Barton stepped up behind him and Coulson met his eyes in the glass. There was still a hint of hope there but it quickly melted away and Barton's shoulders slumped.

"I know twenty ways to knot a rope," Barton said irritably. "How is this so difficult? Sir."

They had been working in Coulson's dressing room for the last half hour and the small pile of crumpled and discarded black ties stacked on the dresser was testament to how badly it had gone. The latest effort was better than Barton's first by a long way and he did seem to be learning, but Coulson couldn't go out wearing a tie that looked so uneven.

"You're getting closer," Coulson said reassuringly. "Nobody is born knowing how to do this."

"Are you sure I have to learn this?" Barton asked. "You've been doing it for yourself for years."

"If I ever have to lend you to someone - or if anyone has to watch you dress me, although that seems unlikely - you'll need to know this," Coulson said.

"Valets get lent out?"

Coulson shrugged. "It happens. Don't worry, I don't have plans to lend you to anyone. But if the need arises, you'll have to be able to manage."

"And a mangled bow tie is a flogging offence," Barton said with a crooked smile.

"In some circles, definitely." Coulson turned to allow Barton to carefully unknot the tie. "I think it's overkill. A few days in the stocks seems more appropriate."

He said it with a small sly smile and Barton glanced up, humour replacing the frustration in his eyes, before looking down at the knot again. He'd obviously turned it into more of a mess than Coulson thought because it seemed to take a lot longer to unpick than any of his other efforts and his fingers kept brushing Coulson's throat.

The close concentration and the light touches against his skin sent another warm shiver through Coulson's body and he had to work hard to suppress any visible reaction. This kind of thing had never happened when Gowan dressed him.

Barton finished unpicking the tie and pulled the length of silk away from Coulson's neck to throw it on the pile of discards. He pulled a face at them and passed a fresh tie to Coulson.

"At least I'm getting lots of practice at undoing all the damage," Barton said philosophically.

"Perhaps it would help if I demonstrated again," Coulson said. "As I have to do this anyway, if I'm ever going to leave tonight."

"A demonstration might help."

Coulson was aware of Barton's intense gaze on him as he quickly and efficiently put the tie on and knotted it neatly. Black ties for evening wear were definitely trickier to master than an everyday sort of tie, but there was something comforting in the ritual of dressing for dinner. He didn't miss the formality of white tie when he was just dining with Fury at the club, he wasn't that old-fashioned, he just liked having that deliberate separation of day from evening and everything it brought.

He leaned closer to the glass to check that the tie and collar were sitting correctly and then turned back to Barton.

"You make it look so easy," Barton said.

"I've been doing it for most of my life. You've only been working on it for a day or two."

"I'm usually a lot better at learning sh-stuff. Did I mention how many knots I know for ropes?"

"Just once or twice."

The clanging of the doorbell echoed around the house and Barton cursed under his breath before glancing at Coulson guiltily.

"Sorry, sir," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "That's probably the cab."

"I'll be down in a minute," Coulson said.

Barton hurried out without another word and Coulson took a moment to check and straighten his jacket and shirt one last time. His plans tonight were exactly what he'd told Barton they would be - cards at the club with Fury - but he hesitated for a moment before pocketing a set of keys. He had no intentions of going out hunting for trouble after dinner, but it never hurt to be prepared. Just in case he changed his mind.

As he closed the drawer he'd taken the key out of, he caught a glimpse of a small black locked box. It contained a few brass cogs and some scraps of bloodied fabric and the contents had been weighing on his mind for the last few weeks.

What he needed was someone who could give him more information on the metallic pieces without asking too many questions about where they had come from. The problem was that anyone in his circle who might know about clockwork machines seemed to have an insatiable sense of curiosity and Coulson couldn't risk asking them.

There were some drawbacks to operating as a masked vigilante and trying not to reveal his secret life to anyone.

He closed the drawer firmly and tried to put the questions aside again. Tonight he'd play cards with Nick Fury and have a pleasant evening with maybe a little bit of information gathering.

Tomorrow he'd return to the problem of the gears.

***

As usual, there was a lamp still lit in the hall when Coulson arrived home in the early hours of the morning, feeling tired and oddly grateful for that sign of life. Even though it was sometimes inconvenient to need to find excuses for his late night excursions, he couldn't deny that it felt good not returning to an empty house. Fury had been in a foul mood all night because he'd been forced to release the man he'd arrested for the river murders. He'd growled irritated curses at the scientists with their analytical engine who had insisted for weeks that he had the wrong man and they had been proved right when another body washed up that morning. Coulson hadn't been able to decide whether Fury angrier about them being right or that he hadn't listened to them. It was probably an equal mix of both, which would explain Fury's irrational temper. They'd played cards after supper and it had taken all of Coulson's skill to prevent Fury bankrupting two minor lords of the realm in his temper. The whole evening had been more exhausting than some of his late night adventures so he'd come home straight from the club instead of going out hunting.

The glow of light from the kitchen was also becoming a familiar, comforting sight and Coulson followed it after putting his coat and hat away. Tonight, Barton was sitting in the armchair in the corner as he usually did. There were many evenings when Coulson came home to find him asleep there (something Coulson told himself firmly he hadn't been hoping for today) but this wasn't one of them. Barton had shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, probably only moments after Coulson went out, and he held a shirt in one hand and a needle in the other. A neat stack of freshly pressed ties and mended clothes told Coulson how he'd occupied his evening.

Apparently circus performers became deft hands with needle and thread to keep their costumes mended and looking bright for their performances. Barton's careful stitch work was some of the best Coulson had seen.

The shirt in Barton's hands had a small tear near the shoulder and Coulson had struggled to find a good excuse for the damage. A gentleman eating at his club didn't have a good reason for tearing his shirt on a rusty nail, after all, and he was fairly sure Barton hadn't believed a word of his lie. Thankfully Barton didn't say anything, he just looked at Coulson with an amused expression and took the shirt away.

Coulson had been very careful to change his clothes right down to his shirts and socks before hitting the streets after that. He'd grown less vigilant when there was no Gowan to look after his clothes and started only changing his jackets and trousers. It was faster and easier, but Barton was too clever for Coulson to risk that anymore.

Barton looked up from his work and the slow, welcoming smile that spread over his face made something in Coulson's chest feel tight and breathless for a moment.

"Evening, sir," Barton said, his voice low and lazy. "Did you have a good night?"

"Apart from losing fifteen pounds at cards, I did," Coulson said.

"I call fifteen pounds a bad night."

"My friend's family made their fortune at the table and he inherited their talent as well as their fortune. Only losing fifteen pounds seems like a good night to me. One of the other men at our table wasn't so lucky."

Barton's quiet chuckle brought an involuntary smile to Coulson's lips and ignited a curl of heat low in his belly.

"In that case, fifteen pounds sounds like a very good night, sir."

Coulson leaned casually against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of nights, are you ever going to do as I ordered and not wait up?"

"Sir, the one night when I don't wait up will be the night you need me. So if it's all the same, I'll carry on as I am."

"I'm home now and I won't be needing you until the morning, so I think you're safe to retire."

Barton gestured with the shirt in his lap. "Don't worry, I'll go as soon as I've finished fixing this."

"See that you do."

There was a long moment where Coulson was tempted to try to keep the conversation going - maybe ask how Mrs Driver was settling in with her sister - while Barton just looked at him with the faintly amused smile that always sent Coulson's mind to all the places he wasn't supposed to be going. The temptation seemed to get worse each time he stood here and he sometimes found himself wondering whether Barton enjoyed their short, quiet late night exchanges as much as he did.

If Barton didn't, he showed no sign of it. In fact, his smile grew fractionally wider as Coulson continued to stand there. Wider and warmer, as though he'd also got caught up in whatever strange energy seemed to pass between them when this happened. The heat that had been resting banked in Coulson's belly flared to life again and he idly wondered what the skin just under Barton's ear would feel like against his fingertips.

Barton suddenly startled and began to swear, choking himself off before he got more than a hint of the first syllable out. He dropped the shirt and needle onto his stack of mending and stuck the tip of his thumb into his mouth with a pained wince.

"Guess that's me finished for the night after all, sir," Barton mumbled around his thumb. He took the abused digit out of his mouth to examine it and frowned. "Can't bleed all over your good shirt, then it really would be past saving."

"What happened?" Coulson asked and then nearly kicked himself for asking such a silly question. "Are you alright?"

"Needle slipped, I'll be fine." Barton licked the blood away again, pink tongue flickering out, and Coulson bit the inside of his lip. "Goodnight, sir."

The words and tone were an obvious dismissal and Coulson decided that the sensible course was not to remark on that and just slip away instead. He waved goodnight and went to bed. It took a long time before he got to sleep: images of Barton kept intruding into his mind every time he tried, images that were sufficiently heated to wake him up completely every time and leaving him aching and aroused.

This had never been a problem with Gowan.

***

Now that Mrs Driver wasn't ruling over breakfast preparations, Coulson had carefully hinted that the big covered dishes of bacon, eggs and sausages weren't necessary unless he had company. The look of relief Barton had given him told Coulson that his new valet hadn't been enjoying preparing enough breakfast for ten every morning.

Or possibly he didn't like throwing away so much food. It was probably a combination of both.

Instead Barton served a single plate of food that was still hot, steaming and fresh from the kitchen each morning. He even learned enough of Coulson's habits to bring the toast out just as Coulson was scraping up the last forkful of bacon so it was hot and crisp, just the way Coulson liked it.

Barton brought the newspaper with the toast and stayed to quietly pour coffee while Coulson read through the morning's headlines. It was a comfortable, companionable way to end breakfast, one Coulson found himself enjoying more each day.

The Prime Minister's ill health was the main story but his eye was caught by photograph near the bottom of the front page. He tapped it before holding it out for Barton to see. "I can't believe people are still buying those."

"I wouldn't want to be driving one when it went up, sir," Barton said as he leaned over to examine the picture of a mangled steam car. "Were there any survivors?"

Coulson glanced at the article around the photograph and nodded. "The passenger was thrown clear when it blew."

"I heard the Benson family down the street are buying one," Barton said. "I got talking to their gardener the other day. They're also thinking about one of those automatons to replace some of the footmen."

Barton's frown as he straightened up was enough to tell Coulson how much he disliked automatons replacing good workers. It was a sentiment Coulson agreed with. He wouldn't be putting people out of work on his estates by buying any, no matter how many times Sitwell wrote to him about one.

"Automatons seem to be the fashion right now," Coulson said as he buttered a piece of toast. "Everyone wants one."

"Everyone wants to save money on board and wages," Barton said shrewdly.

"Partially. There's also their appearance and the excitement that people seem to have over owning the latest new thing."

"They do look beautiful, if you like lots of brass and shiny buttons."

"Many people do."

"You don't?"

Coulson considered the question carefully. "I prefer something more human."

"So do I," Barton said. "Sir."

There was a hint of something in Barton's eyes, probably just relief, that made Coulson's heart pound a little harder than normal. He shook his head when Barton offered more coffee, deciding he'd had enough if his heart was racing from a smile, and settled to read the brief account of the newest body pulled from the river.

When Coulson had read all the actual news in the newspaper and finished his toast and coffee, he retired to his study where he could review the rest without interruption. He flicked casually through the pages, ignoring the reports on cricket and football fixtures until he came to the classified ads. These he scanned carefully, taking in every word, and he stopped halfway down the second column to reread one.

After a minute's thoughtful consideration, he pulled a map out of a desk drawer and carefully traced a coordinate. He frowned down at the map for a while and reread the ad again before folding them together and putting them away in a locked drawer.

***

Coulson flattened his back against a wall and waited. He was standing in the mouth of a narrow side street, his black clothes and mask turning him into a darker void in the shadow of the buildings on either side. It was a cloudy night so there was no moon and the only illumination on the street he was watching came from the gas lamps that hadn't been put out yet.

A chilly breeze seemed to find every seam in his cheap black clothes and he shivered. If the clouds above turned out to be carrying rain, this promised to be a miserable night.

If he'd had more time, he might have been able find a better lookout position. Maybe if his source had been able to contact him directly, he might have had more warning. Even though communicating like this, through newspapers, was safer for both of them it wasn't without its flaws. This wasn't the first time he'd received a tip with little time to prepare, but he had a sinking feeling that this might turn out to be one of the bad ones.

He had spent most of the afternoon travelling around town making discreet inquiries about the clockmaker's shop he was now watching. There had been a couple of times when his informant's tip had come too late or the victim had turned out not to be as innocent as they'd thought, but this time everything seemed to check out. The clockmaker was a good man making just enough to feed his family and a raid on his shop would be disastrous for his business and his family's wellbeing.

People like the clockmaker and his family were a large part of the reason Coulson continued to take the risk of doing all this.

From his position, Coulson could see the shop and a short stretch of empty street on either side of it. The evening grew later and the early spring air became cold and damp. During the day this was probably a busy street, filled with people browsing the windows of the dressmakers, bookshops and stationer's lining the road. Now all the shoppers had gone home and the few people who lived above their businesses were asleep. It wasn't the kind of street Coulson would normally visit and it was well outside the main clockwork district of the city, which meant the clockmaker probably didn't have many high value pieces waiting to be stolen. What he did have would be easy to fence, though, and there was almost certainly cash in the safe as well. Such a small shop wouldn't have much security beyond a solid lock. The thieves wouldn't make as much profit as they would from a larger shop or one making more complex gadgets, but it was easy to see why they'd targeted this one.

He'd visited the shop briefly just before it closed to get a sense of the layout. The clocks on the wall hadn't been anything special, but there had been display cases filled with tiny clockwork birds and animals studded with tiny crystals that made them shine and shimmer as they moved. A little mouse had been scurrying around one of the cases, its wire whiskers quivering, and a small sparrow covered in turquoise and purple stones had trilled a beautiful song from its perch on a twig. Coulson had quietly resolved to commission something for his goddaughter's next birthday because the clockmaker clearly had an artistic talent. He'd made a note of the door to the back room where the safe was probably located and then left to prepare for the evening.

Finally there was movement on the street and Coulson tensed. Three dark figures emerged from the shadows and skulked toward the clockmaker's shop in a way that advertised to anyone watching they were up to no good. Coulson stifled a snort at the amateurish attempt to look stealthy.

One figure crouched in front of the door while the other two stood guard. It only took a couple of minutes to pick the lock and then all three were inside the shop, leaving nobody as look-out. Either they didn't expect to be disturbed or they were trying not to give the game away to casual passers-by. The beam from a lamp immediately lit up the shop's windows and Coulson sighed.

They might as well have announced they were robbing the shop with fireworks and a parade. It would only take one sleepless person looking out of a window to raise the alarm.

Coulson waited a minute, giving them time to become engrossed in their work, and then took advantage of the dark, moonless night and deep shadows to slip unnoticed down and across the street. He peered in through the window and took in the scene with one quick glance before ducking back.

One of the gang seemed to be stationed by the door while another ransacked the display cases. The look-out had his back to the door and seemed more interested in directing his friend than paying attention to anything outside the shop. There was no sign of the third member, but Coulson would lay odds that he was in the back room attempting to crack the safe.

He took a minute to think and mentally rehearse the plan forming in his mind. The thieves had made his job slightly easier by splitting up and lighting up the shop with their lamp, but he was still facing three men who wouldn't easily give up. They might even be armed and Coulson wished that he'd had more time to investigate properly so he'd know who he was facing and their usual patterns.

Instead he had to go on his gut and his instincts said there was probably a gun in there.

He didn't carry one, a choice he'd made more out of practicality than any objection to them. He couldn't go around armed when he was playing himself and leaving guns stashed around the city made him nervous. Anyone could stumble onto one. Someone had found one of his clothing stashes last year and stolen his boots and coat.

Coulson didn't believe in being completely defenceless, though, and he drew out the short length of heavy lead piping he kept in the lining of his long black coat before he carefully moved to the door of the shop.

It opened silently and Coulson's rubber soles made no sound as he approached the look-out, still standing with his back to the road, and brought the pipe down hard on the side of his head. The man dropped like a stone and the quiet thud alerted the other thief, who looked up and opened his mouth to shout.

He didn't have time to make a sound. Coulson crossed the shop in two quick bounds and delivered his best right hook to the man's jaw. He stumbled but didn't fall and immediately charged at Coulson. They collided with one of the display cabinets, making the contents shake with the impact and prompting a small purple and pink bird to fly up and collide with the glass. Coulson grappled with him, managing to get enough leverage to push him away so he could smash his pipe into the man's ribs.

There was a pained grunt but he still didn't fall. He had the advantage of both height and weight over Coulson, but his fighting style was that of a pub brawler and not a trained soldier. Coulson ducked a punch and twisted to kick his opponent's knee. Before the man could regain his balance, Coulson had an arm around his throat and he squeezed as hard as he could.

It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and went limp. Coulson waited a moment longer and then let him fall to the ground. He knelt to check the man was still breathing and that was when the last thief emerged from the background with a thick stack of bank notes in one hand and a triumphant grin on his face. He saw Coulson in the same moment that Coulson saw him and for a moment they were both frozen in place. One on his feet, one kneeling, and both waiting for the other to make a move.

The thief dropped his cash and reached into his jacket. Coulson jumped to his feet and took a step toward him. He saw the revolver a second too late and the sound of it being fired was almost deafening. His shoulder exploded into hot, raw pain and Coulson stumbled against a counter, too surprised for a moment to move.

From the expression on the thief's face, Coulson thought they were both equally stunned. A small clock started chiming behind him, its tinkling tone sounding shockingly loud before it stuttered into silence with a quiet 'bong'.

It was hard to judge what the thief was going to do next. He looked caught by indecision, as though he hadn't been expecting to fire the gun or perhaps hadn't realised he would actually hit Coulson and now he didn't know what to do. He stayed rooted to the spot and the hand holding the gun shook but didn't drop. Coulson straightened up despite the ringing in his ears and the agony in his left shoulder and lurched across to bring his lead pipe down on the thief's wrist as hard as he could. There was a loud crack as the man's arm snapped and that shocked him out of his stupor.

He tried to run past Coulson and out of the shop, all thoughts of his stolen bounty gone, but Coulson kicked out and tripped him. The man fell on top of one of his unconscious friends and Coulson almost fell on top of him as he pushed away from the counter to deliver the blow to the man's head that knocked him out.

Coulson did fall then, onto his knees as his legs turned to jelly and thick bile tried to fight up his throat. He could feel warm blood soaking into his shirt and running down his arm and hot pain was now radiating from his shoulder. The pipe clanged loudly as he dropped it and pressed his hand against his wound to stem the flow.

For a while he stayed there, trying to breathe through the pain until he could think through the fog numbing his mind. The gunshot was sure to have woken people up and soon someone would send for the police. He needed to get out and make sure nothing was left that could be traced. His black glove was soaked with blood now but it didn't show against the dark fabric. There would be no fingerprints for Scotland Yard's new laboratory to examine except, possibly, on his length of pipe. It couldn't be left behind and a new hot rush of blood ran down his arm as Coulson pulled his hand away from his wound to pick up and store the pipe inside his coat again.

Fishing a small white card with a black mask embossed on it out of his left coat pocket was awkward but Coulson did it and dropped it on the pile of unconscious thieves. Then he stood up and stepped over the man lying in the doorway so he could stagger out onto the street.

Already, the distinctive sound of a policeman's whistle was sounding in the distance and there were lights on above two of the shops across the street. Coulson forced himself to walk as fast as he could away from the shop and then into a narrow side alley where he could catch his breath again for a moment before starting the journey home.

He pulled off the mask when he reached the street behind the clockmaker's and stuffed it deep in a pocket. His shoulder still blazed with pain but he thought the bleeding was slowing and he was only a little dizzy. Gritting his teeth, he kept his back straight as he walked and hoped nobody would notice the shiny patch of blood on his black coat. Or at least, that nobody would attempt to stop him or send him to one of the hospitals.

The hansom he flagged down when he was finally reached a busier street had a dirty floor and a driver who looked half-drunk, but by that stage Coulson didn't care. He gave directions and slumped in the corner, pressing a thumb to the wound every time he felt himself starting to drift into sleep. There were still a few gaslights lit in Walden Square when they drew up in front of his house, but the only window with a light still burning inside was his. Climbing down from the carriage was almost more than Coulson could manage and the cab driver winked cheerfully as Coulson handed up a crown. The wink could have been because Coulson had given him twice the fare owned, but Coulson suspected it was more because the driver thought they were both equally drunk.

As he stumbled up the steps and fumbled for a key, Coulson couldn't blame him for that assumption. He heard the steady clop of hooves as the cab drove away and he managed to get the door open. It was a relief to close the door and lean against it for a minute. He was very dizzy now and the stairs up to his bedroom looked more like a mountain.

The lamp on the nearby table seemed to waver in his vision and Coulson closed his eyes, promising himself it would just be for a minute and then he would tackle the stairs. He just needed to rest and catch his breath. Then he would be fine, he had to be fine, because there was no other option.

He must have drifted into some kind of exhausted trance because the next thing he was aware of was footsteps on the tile and a muttered curse. Coulson tried to push away from the door but his legs buckled and there was a loud buzzing in his ears as he started to fall. Strong arms caught him before he could hit the floor and Coulson opened his eyes to meet Barton's.


	4. Chapter 4

Coulson sagged against Barton for a moment, his legs refusing to take his weight. Even though his vision kept going grey at the edges and his ears were ringing, Coulson was dimly aware of how good Barton's arms felt around him and how much he just wanted to lean against him for as long as he could.

Coulson could feel Barton's grip shift to brace him against the door for a brief inspection. Barton's quietly muttered swearing told Coulson exactly how bad he looked and he was too woozy to plaster on his usual bland expression.

"Jesus Christ, sir, what the hell happened?" Barton said.

Coulson blinked and tried to force his eyes to focus properly. "Would you believe me if I told you it's nothing?

He tried to sound forceful and commanding, but his voice came out low and weak and he flinched when he saw the blood staining the front of Barton's shirt.

"I think you know the answer to that, sir," Barton said, his mouth twisting unhappily. "How did you get home like that?"

"Cab."

"Is he still out there? We need to get you to a hospital."

"No." Coulson shook his head and tried to ignore the way the world spun slightly around him. "No hospitals."

"Sir, you're bleeding like a stuck pig," Barton said. "If you don't want the hospital then what do I do? Is there a doctor I can send for?"

"No doctor, no hospital," Coulson insisted firmly.

Any doctor would see he'd been shot and then there would immediately be dozens of uncomfortable questions. Not just about who did it and why, but also about why he was wearing cheap, black clothes instead of evening dress and what he'd been doing out late at night. There was always the option of saying he'd been visiting a brothel. Some of his peers went to cheap prostitutes instead of expensive mistress for reasons Coulson had never understood.

He'd never kept a mistress at all, not even for appearances.

The idea of telling a lie like that, a lie that Barton would immediately hear, made something inside him lurch uncomfortably. He told himself the nausea that the thought brought was just the result of the pain and blood loss.

Barton frowned down at the blood on Coulson's coat and asked, "Will you let me look, sir?"

"What?"

"Come into the kitchen," Barton said. "I'll take a look. I'm no surgeon, but I learned a thing or two in the circus. There was always something happening and we couldn't afford to send for a doctor for everything. One of the fortune tellers taught me what she knew."

Coulson hesitated for a moment, part of him aware that Barton's suggestion was a good one and another part still half-fixated on the need to keep his secrets. The worried expression in Barton's eyes finally forced him to make a decision and Coulson nodded jerkily. He felt more than heard Barton's sigh of relief.

"Thank you, sir," Barton said quietly. "Can't have you bleeding to death on me when I've barely been employed for a month. Pretty sure there's a rule somewhere in the valet handbook about that kind of thing."

"There's a handbook?" Coulson said with a chuckle that came out more like a wheeze.

"I haven't read it yet, but there must be one in the big stack of books my aunt left. Unless she left me with a dozen recipe books and nothing else."

Coulson's legs were like jelly and everything was starting to look slightly unreal, so Barton ended up half-carrying and half-dragging him down the hallway to the kitchen. There he pulled out one of the wooden chairs and carefully lowered Coulson onto it.

"I'm going to need to take your shirt and coat off," Barton said in a slow, soothing tone. "Is that alright, sir?"

Coulson nodded and lifted his hands to try to help, but Barton snorted and batted them away. He unbuttoned and pushed the coat off Coulson's shoulders and only the slight widening of his eyes betrayed anything of he was thinking. His hands were gentle as he opened Coulson's black shirt and carefully peeled the fabric away from the wound. A gush of warmth down his arm told Coulson that the movement had loosened something and he felt another wave of dizziness wash over him. Barton hissed unhappily and used the ruined shirt to mop up some of the blood.

There was a look of intense concentration as Barton pressed at the edges of the wound and Coulson craned his neck down to look at the ragged hole.

"You've been shot," Barton stated before he encouraged Coulson to lean forward so he could examine the exit wound. "It went straight through, which is good. No bullet sitting in there for me to fish out."

"Have you treated many gunshot wounds before?" Coulson asked.

Barton shrugged. "Once. A thigh wound, went clean through the muscle. Healed nicely."

"Oh."

"This doesn't look too bad," Barton said, turning away so Coulson couldn't see his eyes. "I'd be happier if you saw a doctor-"

"Barton-"

"-but I know you won't so I'll do my best." Barton moved out of Coulson's line of sight but he kept talking. "I'm going to need to cauterise it before I start sewing it up and that's going to hurt like fuck, sir. Think you can do it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now hold this in place while I get ready."

Barton took his hand and pressed it hard against the ruined shirt that was now being used as a temporary bandage. The material was tacky with blood and felt foul against his skin but the fierce look on Barton's face didn't leave any room for arguing. Coulson closed his eyes and drifted for a while, listening to the sound of Barton making preparations. He was so tired and now all the other aches from the fight were making themselves known: bruises over his ribs and an ache in his knee where he'd twisted it slightly. For a while he lost track of time until a warm hand touched his uninjured shoulder and he startled.

"Are you ready?" Barton asked.

It took him a moment to work out what Barton was asking him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and make his mind work again.

"I'm ready," he said.

"You might want to close your eyes for this bit," Barton said. "Maybe bite down on something, too."

At the corner of his eye, Coulson could see the heat shimmer on the cherry-red tip of a poker. Barton was holding out a wooden spoon and Coulson grimaced at the sight of both things.

"There's still the hospital," Barton said. "They've got ether and all kinds of other sh-stuff."

"Just do it, Barton," Coulson instructed and he closed his eyes.

"If you're sure..."

Coulson gave him the most baleful glare he could muster. "Do it or I fire you."

The glare didn't intimidate Barton at all, but he did at least shrug and hold out the spoon. "Bite."

The next few minutes were ones Coulson would be more than happy to never live through again. He let Barton put the handle of the wooden spoon between his teeth, closed his eyes and then nearly bit straight through it a moment later. The kitchen filled with the stench of seared flesh and the pain was even worse than the initial gunshot had been. Barton held his arm steady with one hand and Coulson was too far gone to appreciate the display of strength it took to hold him down. He grunted and gritted his teeth as his entire shoulder flared into burning pain and then Barton was stroking a hand soothingly down his arm and he telling him the worst was over.

Barton was probably lying through his teeth, but Coulson appreciated the effort.

He opened his eyes when Barton moved away, immediately missing the comforting hand on his arm. Barton put the poker back by the fire and gathered up a steaming bowl and a handful of clean white rags that might once have been Mrs Driver's good muslin cheese cloths. He set the bowl and rags on the table and Coulson noticed there was already a covered tray on the far side, out of reach of any flailing limbs. He must have been drifting further than he'd thought he was for Barton to have brought that over without alerting him.

"I'm going to clean this up and stitch it," Barton said as he sat down and dunked a rag in the hot water. "It's going to hurt like hell. Do you have any laudanum?"

"No, I never use it," Coulson said.

Barton rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't. Want another spoon to bite on? I've got a few."

"Don't you use them for anything?"

"Yes. I just don't need twenty of them and my aunt seemed to think you'd need that many."

"I have twenty wooden spoons?"

"Not anymore," Barton said. "Now you have nineteen. I'm happy to make it eighteen, sir."

"I'm sure I can cope."

The sceptical look Barton gave him only made Coulson more determined to grit his teeth and see this through. He wasn't sure why it had that effect but it did and Coulson wasn't going to examine it too closely when he was feeling so wrung out.

Cleaning and stitching the wound wasn't as bad as the cauterising, but not by much. Coulson kept his eyes fixed on Barton's face, watching the deep focus and occasional sympathetic wince and trying not to look down at where Barton's blunt fingers were forcing a needle through his flesh. He'd never been particularly squeamish but there was a big difference between holding down another man while he was treated on a battlefield and watching someone doing it to him. There was a thin sheen of sweat on Barton's face, as though he was finding this almost as difficult as Coulson, and he glanced up every now and again up to meet Coulson's eyes and offer a small, reassuring smile. His hands were gentle yet efficient, a combination that somehow made Coulson relax slightly even through the discomfort.

Barton stood behind him to clean and stitch the exit wound. Coulson told himself he was imagining Barton's hands lingering while he washed the blood away from his arm and chest when the stitching was done. It felt surprisingly good and Coulson almost held his breath, unwilling to break the spell.

"How does that feel, sir?" Barton asked as he dropped the last bloody rag into his bowl of water.

Coulson cautiously flexed his shoulder and hissed at the pain, but nothing seemed to break open or bleed. "I think I'm going to live."

Barton smiled. "Do you have anything I can use for bandages? A clean sheet we can sacrifice?"

"There are a few old ones in the back of the linen cupboard," Coulson said. "Mrs Driver doesn't like throwing anything away even if it's too worn to be presentable."

"And how do you know about the contents of your linen cupboard?"

"I hide the good brandy in there."

There was a low chuckle, the first Coulson had heard all night, and Barton touched his shoulder briefly before leaving the room. He wasn't gone long and he already had a few strips of bandage torn away by the time he re-entered the kitchen.

"No brandy, but I did find this," Barton said, holding up the strips of sheet.

Coulson felt a tired smile pulling at his mouth. "It's probably more use than the brandy at the moment."

Barton tore a few more long strips free and then began carefully bandaging the wound, folding a couple of pieces into pads to protect the stitches and winding the rest around Coulson's torso and shoulder in a careful figure of eight pattern. It wasn't the most comfortable thing he'd ever felt when Barton finished, but it wasn't the worst and Coulson could remember a few surgical dressings from doctors that had felt a lot worse. He prodded at the thickest part with a finger and winced as fresh pain lanced through his shoulder.

"Don't poke it," Barton said. "You'll just make it hurt."

Any retort Coulson might have made was cut off when Barton shoved a mug of something warm in his hand. He sniffed it and smelled sweet tea.

"Drink that while I clean up and then I'll get you to bed," Barton said.

Coulson thought about protesting that he was supposed to be the one giving orders, not his valet, but the room started to spin gently around him again so he bit his tongue and slowly drank his tea. The mug was big and coarsely made, a workman's cup rather than the elegant china cups he usually was given, but the size and heavy construction were oddly comforting. There was so much sugar in the tea he had to force it down against the urge to gag and by the time he set the mug down with a muffled thud, Barton had finished his tasks and was waiting to take it away.

"Think you can stand?" Barton asked after he'd put the mug next to the sink.

"Maybe," Coulson said cautiously.

He stood with Barton's help and immediately felt his legs buckle as the world went grey around him. Barton caught him and propped him up against his chest.

"Right, guess that answers that," Barton said.

The walk up the stairs to Coulson's bedroom seemed to take forever and Barton was, again, half-carrying him the whole way. Under any other circumstance, he probably would have felt acutely embarrassed at having to let Barton help him remove his shoes and then crawl under the covers half-dressed but he didn't have any strength left to protest. Instead he helped as much as he could, which wasn't much, and then sighed with relief when he was finally lying down. He felt like he could sleep for months.

"Goodnight, sir," Barton said quietly from the door.

Coulson mumbled something that might have been goodnight but he was already mostly asleep. The lights went out and he heard the soft click of the door closing and then he was falling into a deep sleep and didn't notice anything else until morning.

***

It was late morning before Coulson woke. For a while he just lay in bed assessing all the places that hurt and trying to work up the energy to roll over and pull the bell to call Barton. His shoulder was the worst and it ached fiercely, but it didn't have the hot, burning pain he associated with infection. Not yet, anyway. Barton's rough and ready treatment might have avoided that much.

He could feel the bruises over his ribs every time he drew in breath and assorted other bruises and muscle strains were clamouring for his attention as well. His skin felt gritty and dirty despite Barton's careful attentions and Coulson was torn between longing for a bath and never wanting to move again.

As his mind slowly cleared, Coulson felt anxiety start to churn in his gut. Last night his first thought had been to get into the house and to his bedroom without Barton seeing anything. It was foolish, he knew that now, but somehow Coulson had thought that if he just bound up the wound and slept it off then Barton would never need know he'd been shot. When that plan had fallen apart, he'd been carried away by Barton's concern for him and he hadn't thought about the questions Barton would inevitably have.

Even in Coulson's unusual household, a valet's duties didn't normally include treating gunshot wounds.

Now the clear light of day was about to shine on all his secrets and Coulson needed to think and work out what he would do next. The option of pretending it was just a robbery gone badly wrong had disappeared the moment he refused to see a doctor. Unless Barton was stupid - which he clearly wasn't - then there was very little chance he was going to believe any story Coulson could cook up about innocent muggings even if Coulson tried weave in a story about brothels and bad neighbourhoods.

Barton was probably already beginning to put the clues together and get to an explanation closer to the truth. The only question was how much of the truth Coulson wanted to let him have.

As little as possible, Coulson decided. Even if his gut instinct was to tell Barton everything, he couldn't shake the fear that the truth would send Barton running. Even worse, that Barton would run straight to the police.

Or worse.

Coulson could think of several people who would pay well for the identity of the masked vigilante, people who would regard a relatively painless hanging as entirely too lenient a sentence for all the trouble he'd caused them.

Those thoughts were still tumbling around his head when the quiet click of the door opening distracted him from his contemplation. The curtains were still closed so the room was in shadow, but Coulson could see the familiar shape of Barton's head and shoulders as he peered around the open door.

"You're awake," Barton said quietly.

Coulson nodded.

"How are you feeling, sir?" Barton asked as he crossed the room to open the curtains. "Daisy thinks you have a severe cold so she won't be cleaning up here or disturbing you for a few days. I've encouraged her to think it's contagious, so she cleaned as fast as she could and practically ran out of the door twenty minutes ago."

"That was very clever thinking," Coulson said.

His voice sounded raspy and his throat was dry when he tried to swallow.

Barton shrugged away the compliment. "Figured you didn't want anyone asking too many questions for a few days. We'd have a hard time explaining things to her while you're sporting that black eye."

Coulson reached up to touch his eye, which was throbbing dully now that he thought about it and could pick it out of the other aches. The movement pulled at his shoulder and ribs but he managed to suppress a wince and he touched the puffy skin under his eyed with a sense of dismay.

"I didn't realise," he said.

"You're not going to be appearing in polite society with your face looking like that. Not if you're trying to avoid questions."

Barton moved closer to the bed and reached out to press the backs of his fingers against Coulson's forehead. The gesture was unexpected and Coulson flinched away from his touch.

There was an amused look in Barton's eyes as he said, "Just checking for fever, sir. Nothing else, I swear."

"You caught me off-guard," Coulson said, forcing himself to lie still as Barton reached out again.

Barton's touch was gentle and his hand was warm against Coulson's skin. He hummed quietly as he felt Coulson's forehead and then slid his fingers down over Coulson's jaw, gently testing the skin before withdrawing. Coulson released a careful breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding as Barton suddenly coughed and turned away.

"No fever," Barton said briskly. "Can you sit up?"

It was uncomfortable but Coulson managed to roll onto his uninjured shoulder and then sit up. The world spun dizzily for a moment before settling and Coulson swallowed against the nausea it provoked.

There was a glass of water in Barton's hand when he turned back, poured from a jug that he must have brought in while Coulson was still asleep. It was worrying that Barton had been able to come and go without disturbing him but Coulson put the thought away for another day. There were other, more important concerns at the moment.

"Drink this," Barton said. "I'll draw a bath. There are some salts I can put in that will help with the bruising, get you moving a bit easier."

"Barton, I-"

"Later," Barton said firmly. "We can discuss how you ended up bleeding in the hallway last night _after_ you're cleaned up and dressed, sir."

"You seem to be giving a lot of orders, lately," Coulson observed.

There was a crooked grin on Barton's lips. "Only when you need it, sir."

With that, he gestured for Coulson to drink up and hurried out of the room.

***

As soon as Coulson tried to stand, it became obvious that bathing unaided wasn't going to be possible. He hated to admit the weakness, but his knees buckled and the world spun around so he had to let Barton help him to the bathroom and then, piling on the indignities, help him undress and get into the bathtub.

Under any other circumstances it might have been funny to see the bright red blush in Barton's face and the way he couldn't seem to decide where it was safe to look. The idea of Barton, who seemed to have no shame in other ways, being embarrassed about Coulson's nakedness would have been hilarious.

Except Coulson couldn't meet Barton's eyes either and he could feel the heat in his own face, so he sympathised. It didn't help that if he'd been feeling less like a limp dishcloth, he probably would have been hoping that flush of embarrassment in Barton's face meant something more.

This had definitely never been a problem with Gowan.

Then again, Gowan would already have had the police in the house if he'd found Coulson bleeding in the hallway so this particular situation had never arisen.

Still, he'd never felt this raw attraction to Gowan and he'd definitely never hoped to see it reflected back in Gowan's eyes. The old valet had usually given the impression he viewed Coulson as a mildly infuriating charge with poor taste in friends, politics and tie colours. It had made situations like this much easier to deal with.

Barton hurried out of the bathroom as soon as Coulson was safely in the tub, muttering something about clean bandages as he went.

There were still traces of dried blood on Coulson's skin and his nails were caked with it. He scrubbed all of it away and grimaced at the bruises now blooming deep purple on his chest and arms. They were hot and painful to touch but he gritted his teeth and washed anyway until his skin was pink and clean. He tried to be careful with the bandages around his shoulder but the edges were damp and cool against his skin by the time he finished.

When he finally felt clean, Coulson carefully settled back to allow the hot water to soak some of the aches out of his muscles. His mind drifted between thoughts, skipping sleepily from idea to idea without focus or intent. He was on the edge of a confused dream about thieves with brass faces and ruby eyes when the door clicked open and startled him back to wakefulness.

"I brought clean clothes," Barton said as he entered, still careful not to look directly at Coulson.

"Thank you," Coulson said.

"Do you need more time or are you ready?"

The skin on the pads of Coulson's fingers had gone wrinkly a while ago so he shrugged. "I'm ready."

Getting out of the bath was no more dignified than getting in had been. If anything it was worse because now Barton trying to keep him upright despite the dizziness and contending with his slippery skin. It was a relief when he was out and Barton had led him to a stool in one corner of the room where he could dry off while Barton turned his back. Coulson was quietly relieved that he was able to do that much on his own despite feeling less than steady. He even managed to pull on socks and trousers unaided, though he had to put out a hand when he nearly tipped sideways into a wall.

"I put fresh sheets on your bed," Barton said as he helped Coulson down the hall back to his bedroom. "The dirty ones will be picked up for cleaning this afternoon so Daisy won't see them and ask questions."

"They're that bad?" Coulson asked.

"Dried blood flakes off."

The bed hadn't been made up with Daisy's usual skill but it didn't look bad. In fact, it looked inviting with the odd wrinkles and rumples on the comforter. He directed Barton to help him to a chair, though, because there were certain things a gentleman didn't do unless he was dying and lying in bed all day was high on that list.

Barton rolled his eyes and gently lowered Coulson into the armchair by the window. It was a comfortable chair and Coulson had arranged it there specifically so he had somewhere to sit and read on the nights when he couldn't sleep.

There was a tray of white clothes and a bowl of water on the dresser and Barton nodded to it. "I should change your bandages, sir."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Maybe?" Barton said with a casual shrug. "It's what Marta taught me and nobody I've treated has ever lost anything to gangrene."

"Exactly how many people have you treated?" Coulson asked, curious now that his mind was clearer than it had been last night.

"I didn't count them all."

"An approximate figure."

"More than ten, less than twenty?"

"You've treated more than ten gunshot wounds?"

Barton looked up from carefully unwrapping the bandage, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Not gunshot wounds. Only one of those before you decided to bleed on me last night. Usually it's been knife wounds, but I figure the principal is the same. Big bleeding holes don't look that different to me."

"People get stabbed that many times in a circus?"

"The knife thrower was a drunk," Barton said seriously, only his eyes betraying his humour. "And circus folks don't get on with townies. Usually it's all fists and boots. Sometimes it's knives."

"I had no idea circus life was so dangerous."

"You thought it was all pretty costumes and horse tricks?"

"I've never really thought about it." Coulson sucked in a breath when Barton poked at the neat stitches in his shoulder. "So is that what you did, horse tricks with arrows?"

"Sometimes. Mostly, if they could figure out a way for me to shoot from or at something really impossible then we did it. Me shooting apples off peoples' heads while I was hanging upside down always got a big roar."

"You really did that?"

"Sure I did." Barton smiled proudly. "I never missed once."

Barton's movements were quick and efficient as he wrapped new bandages around Coulson's shoulder. There was a lazy familiarity in his voice as he described some of his other tricks, as though the line between valet and employer had been temporarily shifted so they were something else. Not really friends, definitely not that, but something in between. Coulson wondered how difficult it would be to put the line back where it should be when the time came.

He had a feeling it would never quite go back where it belonged and he wasn't sure how he felt about the prospect.

Barton knotted the end of the bandage in place and straightened up. There were some quiet pops as he stretched his back and he smiled ruefully before gathering up the soiled cloths and piling them onto his tray with the bowl of water.

"I'll bring up some food, sir," he said as he moved to do the door. "You'll feel better with a meal inside."

"I don't eat up here," Coulson protested.

"Today you do," Barton said firmly. "And probably tomorrow as well. After all this work, I won't have you falling and breaking your head on the stairs. Sir."

He was gone before Coulson could say anything else and Coulson was forced to sit back in his chair and quietly think irritated thoughts about insubordinate valets. After a minute he noticed Barton had left a shirt draped over the back of his chair so he pulled it down and shrugged it on. He was still buttoning it when Barton returned carrying a tray laden with plates, jugs, and glasses.

Barton carefully put the tray on a table that usually held a small stack of books - Coulson noted those had been moved to the cabinet by his bed while he was bathing - and brought it over to Coulson's chair. It was a bit awkward because the table couldn't be pushed close but Coulson's stomach growled at the smell of food so he didn't care.

He was a little offended to note that the meat had all been neatly cut up, but then he tried to reach for the jug of water with his injured arm and he realised Barton had saved him from the indignity of asking for help.

Coulson raised an eyebrow at the plate of steak and liver in front of him and Barton shrugged.

"You lost a lot of blood," he said. "Marta always told me good red steak and lots of liver were the best way to bring a man back from that."

The hot baked apple and little jug of cream next to it were probably Barton's way of apologising for the main course, Coulson decided. Mrs Driver must have told Barton how much Coulson disliked liver but Barton seemed to take the mysterious Marta's instructions seriously and Coulson couldn't deny that he seemed to have been right so far.

He speared a piece of liver and forced himself to chew and swallow. The steak was pink and bloody, pinker than Coulson liked, but he ate it and cleared his plate while Barton quietly reorganised his sock drawer. They didn't say anything and Coulson got the feeling Barton was waiting patiently for something.

Either that or he had an obsession with socks, which seemed unlikely.

Coulson was scraping up the last of his baked apple when Barton quietly pushed the sock drawer closed and pulled something out of his pocket. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before moving over to Coulson's chair and wordlessly dropping a black cloth onto the table next to the cream jug. A white square of card landed on top and Barton took a careful step back. His expression was unreadable, no hint of the usual mischievous laughter in his eyes or mouth.

The baked apple suddenly felt like a cold lump in Coulson's stomach. He didn't really need to, but he reached out and touched the familiar fabric of his mask as though it might miraculously turn into something else if he did. The little calling card with its stark black symbol seemed uncomfortably egotistical in this light and Coulson pulled his hand back without touching it.

"I burned everything else," Barton said. "I'll burn those as soon as you've explained."

"Do you really need me to explain?" Coulson asked. "You've already worked it out."

Barton shrugged. "It explains why you came home half-dead from a bullet wound last night. I'd been thinking you were one of those men who goes to the brothels by the docks or something until I pulled those out of your pockets. I couldn't think why else you wouldn't want a hospital."

"I promise, no brothels," Coulson said. "Not by the docks or anywhere else."

"So whenever you said you were at your club, you were out doing...whatever masked vigilantes do at night."

"Sometimes," Coulson admitted. "Not every night. Most nights I really am at my club. It's a useful place to pick up information."

Barton narrowed his eyes. "It was you that night in the warehouse."

"It was."

"Why?"

"Why did I get you out?" Coulson smiled tightly. "Do you really need me to answer that?"

"Why didn't you tell me who you were? I've worked here for a month and you knew the whole time what I'd been, where I'd ended up. Is that why you hired me? Pity?"

"I admit that our initial encounter might have influenced my decision," Coulson said carefully, "but only because it showed you were resourceful and fast on your feet, qualities I admire. You were honest about your situation from the start and I would have guessed that you had nowhere else to go even if we hadn't met that night. To be honest, we were both in a difficult situation that day and I probably would have hired whoever Mrs Driver brought unless he'd been a complete fool or more dishonest than I could live with. Thankfully you were neither and I haven't regretted my decision. In fact, I'm starting to think it was the best decision I've made for a long time."

A faint flush of colour filled Barton's cheeks and he ducked his head for a moment and coughed before he could meet Coulson's eyes again. "Thank you, sir."

"What do you plan to do now that you know?" Coulson asked, nodding to the mask. "I'm sure you've already realised there's a reward available if you turn me in."

"I wouldn't turn you in," Barton said, looking injured. "You saved my life."

This time it was Coulson who had to take a moment and clear his throat before he said, "Thank you."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Barton's mouth. "It's really completely selfish: if I turn you in then I'm back on the streets again. Nobody's going to hire a valet who can't keep secrets and there's not much else I can do that's legal."

"You could go back to the circus," Coulson said evenly. "The reward money would be enough to keep you from starving until you hired on with a new one."

"If it was that simple, I'd be down at the police station already," Barton said. "I'm done with the circus life for good, sir, and I've got nowhere to go if I turn you in. Looks like you're stuck with me."

"I'm grateful."

"I'll keep your secret on one condition."

Coulson tensed, wondering for a long moment whether he'd been completely wrong about Barton and was about to be blackmailed for more money than he could afford. "What do you want?"

Barton picked up the black cloth, letting the card fall to the table. "Let me help, sir."

The words didn't make sense at first and when Coulson finally processed them all he could do was blink up at the valet, torn between refusal and an odd sense of relief.

"Why?" he asked.

"Shit happens to people," Barton said, not bothering for once to try to keep his language clean. "It happens and mostly nobody's around to help. Or nobody _can_ help because they can't go to the police or because they don't trust the police. I've been hearing about you since I got to London - before I ever met you in that warehouse - and you're the man people can go to when shit's happening and they need your kind of help. Sometimes you're there before anyone knows they need it. I want to help. I think I can be useful."

"What can you do that I can't?"

"No offence, sir, but there's places you can't go looking for information that I can," Barton said with a wry smile. "You open your mouth in most places and everyone knows you're a rich man slumming it and they shut up tight. Bet most of your information comes from your friends at the club - that detective inspector you gamble with - and some kind of tip off system."

"I have some young informants who put coded adverts in the _Gazette_ for me," Coulson said. "I caught a pickpocket a few years ago and we made a deal. He'd keep an ear to the ground for anything I should look into and I'd pay him for everything that turned out to be a solid tip. I used to take a walk around Hyde Park every morning and he'd meet me there if he had anything for me. After a while, he added a few people to his gang and one of them could write so we changed to using adverts. It's safer for all of us if we never meet. I understand he and his friends do much better out of this than they ever did through pickpocketing."

"It's a fucking miracle you aren't in jail yet," Barton said before wincing. "Sorry, sir."

"No, you're right. It's a miracle." Coulson shrugged and hid a wince as the motion tugged on his stitches. "I'm careful, but one day someone will trip me up."

"So let me help and maybe that day won't come."

Coulson studied him carefully, taking in the earnest expression and the way he was clutching the mask so tightly his knuckles were turning white. "Why is it so important to you?"

Barton swallowed audibly. "I've done some things I'm not proud of over the years. I'd like to balance the ledger a bit."

The words seemed to hang in the air between them for a tense moment. Coulson wanted to ask for more details but he sensed Barton wasn't ready to share them and maybe never would be.

"It's dangerous work," Coulson said.

"I've noticed."

"We never get thanked and the newspapers call me a criminal."

"I never read them, so it's no skin off my nose what they call me."

"You're really sure about this?"

"Completely." Barton held up the mask. "I've had a few hours to think about it, sir. I'm not changing my mind, I want to do this."

Coulson paused for a beat before he reluctantly nodded. "If I can't talk you out of it then I guess you're in."

Barton grinned broadly as they shook on the agreement and Coulson silently asked himself what he'd got into.


	5. Chapter 5

_London, April 28th, 1908_

The main story in all the morning papers was the old Prime Minister's funeral. Even though he'd been ill for a long time, nobody had expected Campbell-Bannerman to die nineteen days after resigning his office. Coulson folded the front page of the _Times_ back so he could get to the more interesting news. Large newsprint at the top of the second page declared that another mutilated girl had been dragged out of the Thames and Coulson sighed unhappily as he read the article under the blurred photograph. There was nothing new to add so the reporter used most of his copy to criticise Scotland Yard and their special task force for not finding the murderer yet. Never mind that Fury's SHIELD unit was investigating half a dozen other cases around London or that there hadn't been a new lead for two weeks, the Thames Ripper (as the case had been nicknamed in the press not long ago) was still at large and the reporter wanted to know why.

The editorial had been split between a thinly disguised eulogy for Campbell-Bannerman and another attack on Fury and Coulson stopped reading after two sentences.

He lifted his coffee cup and made a face when he realised it was empty. His breakfast still sat cold and congealing on his plate, an unappetising mess of eggs and bacon he hadn't been able to stomach yet. The newspaper's lurid descriptions of the body had taken away his appetite completely.

The sound of Barton's footsteps approaching pulled Coulson out of his irritated slump and he smiled gratefully at the steaming carafe in Barton's hand.

"Not hungry this morning, sir?" Barton asked as he poured more coffee.

Coulson tapped the newspaper. "Not anymore."

Barton tilted his head to look at the page and grimaced. "Have you thought about looking into that yourself?"

"Every time I open the paper," Coulson said, "but it's not our sort of case. It's too high-profile and maintaining a secret identity while working on the same investigation as a good friend could get problematic. Generally I try to hand things over to him anonymously, not take away his cases."

A hint of pride had flashed over Barton's face when Coulson said 'our case' and the expression made something warm in Coulson's chest, chasing away some of the unhappy nausea.

"That makes sense, sir," Barton said. "I'm not sure I'd want to tangle much with a man who has Detective Inspector Fury's reputation."

"Exactly."

Barton grinned and picked up Coulson's untouched plate. "Do you want some toast? You can't start the day on an empty stomach, sir."

Coulson was tempted to tell Barton that he'd start the day on an empty stomach if he wanted to, he was the employer after all, but their relationship hadn't entirely returned to such distinct roles after the shooting. There were blurred lines now, ones that allowed Barton to give suggestions that were closer to orders when he felt he knew what was best. The confused mixture of attraction and almost-friendship Coulson felt only made it harder to navigate the complexities of their new relationship.

Sometimes he thought Barton looked almost as confused but the hints of uncertainty were always gone in a moment and replaced with confident smiles.

Any protests Coulson might have made about not needing food were silenced by a quiet gurgle from his stomach and he didn't entirely conceal his wince. "I'll have some toast."

"A wise choice, sir," Barton said with a smirk.

Coulson was reading an article about Stark Industries' latest household gadget ("Poaches eggs perfectly every time - it even removes the shells for you!") when Barton returned.

Barton nodded to the paper as he put the toast rack down next to the butter. "The new automaton for the Benson family arrived yesterday. Their gardener was telling me all about it at the pub a couple of days ago."

"Already?" Coulson asked. "I thought it wasn't due to be delivered for another week."

"Apparently the company's opened a new production line. The footmen it's replacing are leaving this afternoon."

"They can't be happy."

"Apparently they aren't," Barton said. "It's getting hard to find new positions now that so many houses are buying automatons."

"You don't need to worry about that happening here. I won't have them working in my orchards so I definitely won't have one in my house."

"You might be the only person in London who doesn't have one soon."

Coulson shrugged. "Then we'll continue to struggle along as we are, free from the dubious benefits of magical toasting machines and automatons."

"Sounds good to me, sir."

***

Sometime in the middle of the night, a noise outside shook Coulson from a deep sleep. He went straight from dreaming to alertness with practised ease and lay still for a minute, listening tensely to see whether the sound would be repeated.

A muffled shout followed by a shrill scream floated in through his open window and sent chills through his veins. Coulson was up and out of bed almost before he could process what he was doing. He only paused long enough to shuffle into his slippers before darting for the door.

The screams were even more muffled in the hallway but the sound of a bell ringing penetrated well enough. Coulson was halfway down the stairs before he realised that the lamps at the top and bottom had been turned on. He wasn't surprised to find Barton already at the window in the front parlour. No lights had been lit here and Coulson moved carefully in the dim light so he wouldn't trip on any of the furniture.

There was another shout, much louder this time, and the ringing bell was moving closer. Coulson joined Barton at the window just as a steam car roared into view and came to a halt on the other side of the square. The railings around the garden in the middle obscured the view slightly, but Coulson could still make out the uniforms of the four police men who emerged from the car and hurried to the house at the corner of the Square.

"That's the Benson house," Barton said quietly.

"I know."

Around the square, lights were going on in windows and some of the attic windows opened so servants could lean out of them and watch. No lights went on in No. 49 but Coulson could track the swinging light of lanterns as people moved through it.

"The screaming's stopped," Barton noted after a while.

"That's probably not a good sign."

"I figured."

A steam car with a coat of arms Coulson couldn't make out arrived a few minutes later. It was large enough to carry a stretcher and two men dressed black suits got out and leaned against it, watching the house as intently as everyone else.

It seemed like hours before two policemen emerged carrying a sheet-covered stretcher. They were followed by several figures shrouded in blankets, leaning against each other as though they couldn't stand on their own anymore.  Coulson couldn't make out any features and he wasn't sure he would have recognised anyone even if he could.

"Mr and Mrs Benson," Barton murmured. "Their two oldest girls seem to be alive. I think that might be the ladies' maid and the housekeeper."

"You can recognise them from here?"

Barton shrugged. "It's part of why they called me Hawkeye in the circus. I see really well at a distance."

"Who else can you see?"

"Ben, the gardener," Barton said. "I can't see James Benson, the son."

Coulson eyed the stretcher being loaded into the hospital carriage, assessing the shape of the form hidden under the sheet. It looked about the size to be a young man.

Another carriage arrived just as the one carrying the body drove away and the Bensons were quickly ushered into it, away from the square's prying eyes and a lone photographer trying to set up his equipment nearby. There was a lull in the activity again as two policemen talked to the servants who had been left behind and took notes while the others continued to search the house.

Barton sighed as one blanket-shrouded figure put an arm around the other and they leaned closer. "Shit, sir, why aren't they going to the hospital as well?"

"I don't know," Coulson said.

The sky was just beginning to turn the steel grey of predawn when the police steam car returned, this time travelling slowly and quietly with no bells. It was followed a few minutes later by a horse-drawn cart. By now most of the windows in the square were dark again, the occupants of the houses having gone to bed as soon as most of the excitement was over.

Coulson wasn't completely surprised when the two servants were directed into the steam car. He heard the unhappy sigh Barton made when he realised what was happening as well but there wasn't anything Coulson could do. He certainly couldn't go out there and tell the police what to do.

The rattling roar of the car was disappearing into the distance when his eye was drawn back to the house. He'd forgotten about the policemen still searching inside. They came out now, carrying something wrapped in sheets that looked big and heavy. The cart driver hopped down and helped them loaded their burden into it, throwing a heavy tarpaulin over as soon as the gate was securely fastened. The driver climbed back into his seat and set the horses walking with a twitch of his long whip and the policemen marched away in the opposite direction.

Coulson waited a moment but nothing else happened.

"Huh," Barton said quietly. "That was odd."

"Very odd."

"Unless I missed it, I didn't see any detectives over there. Did you?"

"Your eyesight is much better than mine."

"So that means we just watched a few constables deal with a high class murder. Maybe murder. There was a body, anyway. That's weird, right? Even for England?"

Coulson nodded. "Very strange."

"Does that make it our kind of case?"

"It's worth taking a closer look," Coulson said.

"When?"

"Tonight." Coulson didn't even have to think twice about that. "We'll have a look around in there tonight."

He started to step back from the window and somehow they must have moved closer over the hours of watching, because his shoulder collided with Barton's chest and they both started to stumble. Coulson instinctively reached for the other man and he felt Barton's hands land on his hips to catch him at the same time. Somehow neither of them fell, although Coulson's healing shoulder complained about the sudden movement.

There was bare skin under Coulson's hands, skin that was cold but warmed quickly. Coulson couldn't look away from where his rested hand on Barton's shoulder, its paleness standing out against Barton's golden tan. For a moment he was distracted by wondering how Barton's chest and arms were still so evenly browned after a long English winter. It must have been months since Barton last worked in the circus and even there, Coulson couldn't imagine Barton had habitually worked shirtless on cold November days.

The sound of a quickly indrawn breath sent Coulson's thoughts scattering and he looked up to meet Barton's eyes. There was something intent and heated there, a look that made warmth curl low in his belly. Barton's hands tightened slightly on his hips and Coulson was suddenly aware of how heavy and strong they felt through the thin fabric of his pyjamas.

A mixture of fierce need and confused affection made the breath catch in Coulson's throat. He wouldn't even need to move far to kiss Barton, just tilt his head slightly and lean in a little to touch their lips together.

Barton's eyes dropped for a moment and the tip of his tongue swept over his lips. Coulson's gaze was drawn there and his heart started to beat faster as he swayed forward just the tiniest fraction.

The sound of a door slamming out on the street startled Coulson out of the warm haze of lust he'd almost lost himself in. His heart hammered in his ears and he felt warmth flooding his face as he took two quick steps away from Barton and temptation. He was painfully aware that his pyjamas did nothing to hide how much he wanted Barton and he desperately wished he'd taken the time to dress properly before leaving his bedroom.

Barton just standing there, shirtless and barefoot and looking like something out of Coulson's dreams, didn't help him to feel any calmer. In the dim light he was just able to make out a hint of pink in Barton's cheeks and the way Barton couldn't seem to look at him.

Coulson swallowed hard and told himself this was for the best. If he'd kissed Barton and Barton didn't want him...

Men ended up in prison for less, if they approached the wrong men. Kissing his valet would be wrong, Coulson told himself, wrong and dangerous.

"You must be freezing," Coulson said eventually, hearing his voice crack on the words and cursing himself.

A ghost of a smile appeared on Barton's lips. "I've felt warmer, sir."

There was an awkward silence and Coulson cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You should-" he started just as Barton said, "It's late-"

They both trailed off and Barton scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in wild clumps that Coulson itched to touch.

"Sir, it's late," Barton said carefully. "We're both tired."

"Exhausted," Coulson confirmed quickly. "We should, uh..."

"We should." Barton took a step toward the door. "Absolutely."

"I'll probably sleep late," Coulson said. "Don't wake me, I can manage on my own."

"It's Sunday. Daisy won't be in today."

"You should get some extra sleep as well, then. We'll be out late tonight."

Barton grinned and took another couple of steps away. "You should too. I'll see you tomorrow. Today. Later. Goodnight, sir."

"Sleep well."

Coulson waited until he heard Barton's door close upstairs before he went back to bed and completely failed not to dream about Barton and kissing him until they were both breathless.

***

Climbing a garden wall with someone at his side felt odd, Coulson decided several hours later. He was too used to working on his own.

They'd managed to avoid each other for most of the day after sleeping late. Coulson ate lunch at his club and then spent the afternoon in his study working on some correspondence to cousins in Yorkshire that he'd been putting off for weeks. It was one of the times when he regretted not having a useful trade he could pretend to be working at when he needed to hide.

Running the estate and managing his investments took much less time than it had in his father's day.

By the time Barton served a light supper that evening, the awkwardness between them seemed to have receded. Barton's usual casual smile was firmly in place and Coulson was able to thank him for the food without feeling self-conscious.

Whatever had happened - nearly happened - between them was pushed out of Coulson's mind by preparing for a night of investigation. That's what he told himself, anyway, while he pretended he couldn't see the glances Barton shot him as they went over the plan before slipping quietly out of the back door just as the clock struck ten.

They had approached the house obliquely, taking a circuitous route through the quietest streets and alleys in the area to approach the house from the back garden. Barton had grinned knowingly as they slipped from shadow to shadow and Coulson felt oddly proud that he'd caught on to what he was doing so quickly.

The high garden wall of 49 Walden Square proved to be the hardest challenge. They'd pulled on matching bag-like masks as they approached it and Barton cleared it easily, but Coulson's shoulder wasn't back to its normal strength yet. His boots scraped noisily against the brick as he jumped and tried to pull himself up with his good arm.

It felt like he hung there for hours, halfway up the wall and scrambling to push himself up further, but then he was over and dropping to the ground on the other side. Barton caught him, steadying him for a moment by the shoulders before quickly releasing him and stepping back.

Maybe things between them weren't quite back to the way they'd been before, Coulson acknowledged to himself.

He led the way through the shadowed garden. A few lights still burned in the windows of neighbouring houses but No. 49 was dark and lifeless. There had been no effort to secure the back door, just as he'd noted in the tailor's shop, and Coulson had the lock picked and opened in less than a minute. Barton whistled under his breath and Coulson smiled behind his mask, allowing himself to bask a little in the admiration.

All the houses around Walden Square had been built around the same time in the mid-eighteen hundreds and they all had similar layouts. Coulson only needed moonlight and a memory of how the ground floor should be laid out to find the main lobby and the staircase. Their footsteps were almost silent as they moved through the house. Barton gestured to the stairs and Coulson nodded. The search had been planned out carefully before they left home and Barton disappeared upstairs without another word.

Coulson checked each room methodically, starting at the front of the house and working back. Nothing seemed out of place or odd in the main rooms, although the flowers in vases in the parlour and the hallway were drooping badly and a couple of dead petals had already drifted to the floor. Someone probably replaced the floral arrangements every couple of days and it hadn't been done today.

The kitchen had a strong yeasty smell and Coulson quickly found the source: bread dough left to rise overnight, probably to bake into fresh rolls for the family's breakfast, which was now spoiling.

There was a cupboard in the hallway that, in Coulson's house, was used to store old coats, travelling rugs and walking canes. He almost went past it without checking, but then he reconsidered and turned back to open it.

Something big and heavy lurched toward him as soon as he opened the door, a figure with a brass face and a cold steely rictus. Coulson stepped back quickly, barely managing to muffle a shout of surprise. It took a minute to realise he wasn't under attack and he slumped against the wall while he waited for his heart to stop racing.

The thing in the cupboard was an automaton. Coulson hadn't seen any this close before, but the smooth brass head with its not-quite-human expression was unmistakable. Someone had dressed it in the household livery so it looked almost like a man, except for the head and metal almost-hands. Its shoulder had caught on the doorjamb, which was why it hadn't fallen on him, and a delivery label still hung from a length of string around its neck. Someone had scrawled something on the label in a messy hand that Coulson couldn't read.

Coulson watched it for a long moment but it didn't move. There was no sign of life at all, not even the quiet hum of a boiler. Its hands only had three spindly 'fingers' and a thumb but they looked much more dextrous than Coulson had expected. The head had two black spaces for eyes and a metal grill formed into a smile underneath. He'd heard rumours that some of the automatons could speak short, prepared sentences and their eyes lit up when they were functional.

Tiny pistons connecting the joints of its hands and arms had to be what allowed it to move and Coulson was grateful that this one looked dead. The attempt to make it look almost human just made it unsettling in his opinion. None of his properties would ever host an automaton.

He reached out and cautiously prodded its shoulder. Nothing happened.

Coulson let out a silent sight of relief and tried to push it back into the cupboard so he could close the door. The material of its jacket had caught on something where it was resting against the doorjamb and it took a bit of a struggle before he was finally able to yank it free with a rip of fabric and push the thing inside to rest against the back wall.

He closed the door firmly and listened for a moment, but the cupboard stayed quiet.

The rest of the search of the ground floor revealed nothing, not even a book out of place. Everything looked disturbingly normal.

Coulson's feet were silent on the carpeted stairs as he climbed up to join Barton in his search. He'd spent much longer than expected dealing with the automaton so Barton should be in the staff bedrooms by now, but Coulson glanced down the corridor to the family bedrooms anyway and he stopped.

A door stood open and moonlight shone through, silhouetting Barton's form against the wall opposite. Barton wasn't moving.

All of Coulson's instincts were on high alert as he moved silently down the hall. He touched Barton's shoulder and the other man jumped with a muffled yelp.

"Jesus, sir, you can't creep up on a guy like that," Barton whispered when he'd caught his breath.

"Sorry."

When Coulson looked over Barton's shoulder and saw what he'd been staring at, it was easy to see why Barton had been so jumpy. They were looking into a bedroom and Coulson guessed from the cricket bat leaning in a corner that it had been James Benson's room.

The room had been torn apart. Feathers littered every surface, probably from the mattress and pillows shredded on the bed. Splashes of something dark and unwholesome covered everything and the coppery smell in the air told Coulson exactly what it was. Books and clothes had been torn to pieces and there were even long slashes torn in the drapes.

"What do you think happened here?" Barton asked.

Coulson swallowed down his nausea. "I don't know yet. I've seen it before."

"You have? When?"

"Remember the shop where your first jacket was being altered?"

"That's...this is what happened there?" There was a hint of revulsion in Barton's voice. "Fuck."

"It wasn't this bad there, though."

"How do you know?"

"I looked." Coulson sighed. "Do you feel up to taking a closer look?"

The mask hid Barton's expression but the way he paused to take a deep breath and then swallow before he nodded told Coulson enough.

Picking through the blood-spattered remains of a young man's life was one of the most unpleasant tasks Coulson had ever undertaken. It seemed to take a long time although the moon was still high when they finished.

"There are some torn threads here," Barton said, scuffing his toe over the carpet. "Like something with sharp edges was dragged over the carpet."

Coulson held out his hand to display three small gears that shone bright and brassy against his dark glove. "I found some of these in the tailor's shop as well."

Barton slowly turned his head, his eyes intently searching until he nodded and moved over to the bed. He crouched and reached under to pick something out.

A tiny piston rested on his hand.

"Damn," Coulson breathed.

"You know what this is from?" Barton asked.

"I know where I've seen one this evening," Coulson said. "An automaton in a cupboard downstairs. The pistons on its hands look like they're the same size as that one. It's dead but intact, as far as I can tell, and it looks like it was supposed to be getting returned. The Bensons must have been sent a second one when the first one turned out to be broken."

Barton swore and Coulson silently agreed with him.


	6. Chapter 6

_London, May 12th, 1908_

Coulson was surprised to find Fury already seated at their usual table in Chester's dining room when he arrived a couple of weeks after the Benson death. There was a glass of whiskey in front of Fury and another sat at Coulson's place opposite. The decanter had been left behind, which wasn't a good sign.

The evening was warm but there was still a roaring fire in the hearth so the room was stifling. Coulson exchanged sympathetic glances with Evans as he made his way over to the table. The waiter looked as hot as Coulson felt and while Coulson could take off his tie and jacket, if he wanted to be gossiped about for the next month, Evans had to wear the club livery whatever the conditions were.

"I ordered roast lamb for both of us," Fury said in lieu of a greeting.

Coulson raised an eyebrow as he sat. "Hungry?"

"Yes." Fury grimaced. "I spent half the day up to my knees in river muck and the smell put me off lunch."

"Another body?"

"First one for nearly two weeks," Fury said tiredly. "I'd been hoping he'd stopped, but then a girl washed up this morning and the coroner thinks she's been dead for a few days. She definitely smelled and looked like she'd been dead for a few days."

Evans arrived with their food at that moment and the expression on his face said he'd overheard Fury and he was regretting it intensely. The savoury smell of lamb, gravy and roasted potatoes rose from the plates and Coulson tried to look apologetic as Evans served them and hurried away.

Fury dug in immediately and for a while they didn't talk, putting all their focus into eating instead. It was good food, as always, and Coulson enjoyed every mouthful. Barton's cooking wasn't bad, but it was plain and he hadn't ventured into anything more complicated than a roast chicken yet.

Coulson mentally kicked himself. It was starting to get disturbing how often his thoughts went to Barton, particularly when there was no good reason to think about his valet. Even the excuse that they spent a lot of their time together didn't hold water anymore, not when he was comparing the cooking at his club to Barton's and then wondering what Barton was doing while he was out.

Or waking up from dreams of golden skin and blue eyes, aching for something he couldn't take the risk of asking for.

Telling himself that it was just a symptom of too many nights in an empty bed didn't help. There were places he could go to find a willing and discreet lover but Coulson was unhappily aware it wouldn't cure anything. Not when all he wanted was Barton and he couldn't get the man out of his head.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Fury pushed back his plate with a satisfied sigh.

"Did that piece of lamb personally offend you, Phil?" Fury asked. "You've been glaring at for the last two minutes."

Coulson shook his head and speared the last mouthful of meat onto his fork. "Sorry, I was miles away."

"I know why I'm bad company tonight," Fury said. "I've got a monster out there killing girls and I can't stop it. Makes me angry. What's your excuse?"

The last bite of lamb was cold but Coulson chewed carefully and collected his thoughts. Confessing to a police inspector that he was becoming obsessed with his valet, maybe even falling a little bit in love, would be a very bad idea. Fury might be his closest friend, but Coulson didn't think that would matter if he started making confessions Fury couldn't pretend to ignore.

Thankfully he'd arrived tonight with a plan so he pushed all thoughts of Barton away. "Something happened to one of my neighbours a couple of weeks ago. Has anything crossed your desk?"

Fury took a thoughtful sip of his whiskey. "One of your neighbours?"

"A family on the other side of the square," Coulson said carefully. "Their son died in the night. He was eighteen and the house has been closed up ever since."

"My department doesn't exactly deal with your end of the social scale," Fury said. "Unless there was something odd about it, there are other people in the Yard who deal with your crowd."

"The only odd thing is that nobody seems to know what happened," Coulson said. "A few constables were at the house that night and we haven't seen any sign of the police since. No funeral has been announced and nobody has seen the family."

Fury seemed to consider it for a long moment, staring into the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. "It does sound strange, but it's not the kind of thing that crosses my desk. I'd offer to pass on anything I hear around the Yard, but half the time I don't even hear about the shit happening in my own damn department so I doubt I'll hear anything that would help."

"I understand," Coulson said.

He glanced around and suppressed a wince at the number of people conspicuously not looking their way and pretending intense interest in their conversations or newspapers. Any thoughts of asking whether there had been any reports of deaths or injuries from automatons fled: he didn't want to raise Fury's suspicions and there was an air of simmering anger around him now.

"Has something happened?" Coulson asked. "Something in your department?"

Fury snorted. "The Commissioner has decided that he wants a more proactive approach to catching the masked vigilante. We thought the bastard had gone but two nights ago he left five men chained up outside a station with a sarcastic note telling us what to prosecute them for and which hospital the victims were being treated in. One of them had a hole in his leg and he wouldn't tell us what made it."

Coulson hid a smile in his whiskey glass. It had been his first night out on patrol with Barton at his side and they'd stopped two groups of men who were trying to beat money out of shopkeepers within a couple of hundred yards of the local station. Barton had muttered angrily all the way home about the police who had stayed comfortably at home drinking tea even though they had to have heard the cries for help. He'd looked fiercely happy when he'd had an excuse to use his bow and shoot one of the gangsters in the leg as he tried to run away.

"If he's doing something good, why does Sir Douglas want to stop him?" Coulson asked mildly.

"Because he's making us look bad. Showing our asses to the world because we can't stop crimes happening on our own damn doorsteps." Fury made a face. "Although he might have had a point about protection rackets running under the noses of our own constables. The Commissioner wasn't happy about _that_ either."

"So what does he want to do?"

"He's already done it," Fury said sourly. "He's stolen my sergeant and she's taking care of it. No questions asked."

Coulson gaped at Fury for a moment before collecting himself and forcing his expression into something neutral. "He's put Detective Sergeant Hill on it? I thought he hated the idea of women in the police even more than he hated...ah..."

"A black man with an inspector rank?" Fury's smile was sharp and angry. "He does. But Hill is ruthless and she's not afraid to get her hands dirty. The Commissioner thinks that's the only way we'll catch the vigilante and I can't disagree with him."

"The fact that it also moves her off a high-profile case and onto one where the public will hate whoever catches the vigilante has nothing to do with it, obviously," Coulson said blandly.

Fury toasted him with the last finger of whiskey in his glass. "If he doesn't put one of his cronies onto my river case as soon as it looks like we'll catch the bastard, I'll eat my hat."

Coulson raised his glass. "Here's to eating your hat, then."

They exchanged wry smiles and then Fury drained his glass and stood up. "Come on, I need to win some irritating lordling's money. It will make me feel better."

The gleam in Fury's eye was reckless and angry, which was a bad sign in most people but Fury usually played cards better when his hackles were up. Coulson shrugged and gave in, resigning himself to an evening watching Fury bleeding an unsuspecting and foolish young noble until he squealed.

***

It was habit now to pass by the kitchen on his way to bed after a night out. Coulson tried not to think too much about why this was his favourite part of the day. Barton always turned off every light except the lamp beside his chair and in the dim light, Coulson could almost pretend they were more than employer and employee. Talking quietly to Barton, watching him work at whatever his current project was, felt warm and comfortable. This was when he could pretend they were friends and maybe one day they might be more.

Maybe one day Barton would do what Coulson couldn't, didn't dare, risk doing. He'd take Coulson's hand and draw him down to kiss in the darkness and they'd laugh into each other's mouths at how long they'd waited.

It was only a dream, one Coulson kept trying to make himself forget about with no success.

Tonight Barton was sitting in his chair in the corner of the kitchen with his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. His jacket and tie were draped neatly over one of the wooden chairs by the table and Coulson wondered, as he always did, whether Barton was unaware of the guidelines that said he should stay fully dressed if he expected Coulson to visit and just chose to ignore it. He suspected that was the case.

Barton's current project seemed to be a carving of some kind. He was frowning down at something in his hand and there were wood shavings around his feet, anyway. A couple of nights ago he'd spent the evening fletching arrows and last week he'd been darning socks. There was always something in Barton's hands and Coulson had never seen him just sitting with a book.

The sound of wooden chair legs scraping over tiles seemed loud in the dim kitchen and Coulson winced as he finished pulling out a chair and sat down. Barton didn't seem surprised by the sudden noise. He continued carefully carving for a moment before blowing the wood dust away and then looking up with a tired smile.

"Did you have a good night, sir?" he asked.

Coulson shrugged. "Fury only won ten pounds from me, so it wasn't bad."

"I didn't know you were playing cards tonight."

"It wasn't planned." Coulson rolled his eyes. "Fury was in a bad mood. Fleecing foolish young men with too much money always makes him feel better."

"An odd habit for a police inspector."

"He's an unusual man."

Barton grinned. "I'm starting to see that. Did he tell you anything?"

"Nothing useful. He hasn't heard anything about the Benson family or any similar deaths." Coulson sighed. "The most useful piece of information he gave me is that one of his sergeants is after our hides."

Barton sat up straight, a worried look on his face. "What? Who? How close is he?"

"She. Detective Sergeant Maria Hill. I have no idea how close she is but we've been careful and Fury didn't seem to think she knew anything he doesn't. I don't think we need to worry yet."

"We should take extra precautions, just in case. Change our patrol routes, that kind of thing."

Coulson gave him an amused look and after a moment Barton ducked his head, looking up through his eyelashes with a sheepish expression.

"Can we pretend I didn't try to lecture you on how to do your job, sir?" Barton said.

"It's already forgotten. Did you find anything tonight? I assume you were at the pub."

"I learned that butlers and valets are worse gossips than circus folk and they know everything that happens in their households." Barton grimaced. "Nobody's heard from the Bensons' staff, but the housekeeper in number twenty-two has heard that the family will be back next week to pack up and close down the house. Her cousin is in service in Hertfordshire, near the Bensons' country house, and the word up there is that James Benson had scarlet fever and that's why everyone disappeared: quarantine. There wasn't even a hint of gossip about automatons going crazy and killing people, though. A couple of butlers would like to kill the automatons in their houses, but that's it. The things are unnerving but none of them seem to be killing people, according to the rumours."

"We're going to need to examine one," Coulson said thoughtfully. It was an idea that had been nagging at him for the last few days. "We need to see one doing its job and maybe try to find out what makes them tick."

"You're not thinking about buying one, are you, sir? Not after what we saw."

"No. Definitely not."

"Breaking into a house?"

Coulson shook his head. "Nothing that drastic. We'll be invited in."

Both of Barton's eyebrows shot up. "Invited? How are we managing that?"

"An old friend has invited me to a house party this weekend. I went to Oxford with Lady Carter's younger brother and she recently bought half a dozen automatons. She's always liked the newest gadgets."

"A house party? Aren't there going to be a whole bunch of other people there?"

"Probably," Coulson said. "Lady Carter's parties are always busy. There are rumours that she does favours for some people in the Foreign Office so her parties are always busy and a little unusual. It's our best chance to see a working automaton up close, though."

Barton sighed. "You're the boss. You've already replied to her, haven't you?"

"The letter went in the evening post. You'll need to make travel arrangements tomorrow for us. I'd like to be at Carter House by five o'clock on Friday."

Coulson tried to think of something to add to draw out the conversation but he came up blank. It was much later than he'd planned and his brain was starting to go fuzzy from tiredness and whiskey. There was an exhausted droop to Barton's shoulders as well and a yawn overtook his attempt to say anything.

"You really don't have to stay up for me every night," Coulson said.

Barton smiled and there was something warm and happy in his eyes. "I know."

The words hung there in the air for a moment before Coulson shook himself and stood up.

"Goodnight, Barton," he said quietly.

Something flashed across Barton's face that might have been disappointment but Coulson told himself he was mistaken. He turned away so he couldn't be tempted to look for something that probably wasn't there and waved acknowledgement of Barton's quiet 'goodnight' as he left.

***

Paddington station in the afternoon on a Friday was one of the busiest places Coulson could think of visiting. Between the crowds of people and the cordoned off areas where work was being done to make it even larger, it was a miracle anyone could find their trains or hear announcements. Spring had turned warm so the press of people made Coulson regret his coat and hat. He could see sweat dampening the hair just above Barton's collar as he forged a path through the crowds carrying their luggage.

Coulson had tried to persuade Barton they could trust their bags to a porter but Barton had just snorted at him and moved off. Some days, the man was stubborn beyond belief.

With Barton pushing a path clear ahead of him, getting to their platform didn't take long. Coulson made a mental note to plan travel better in the future so he could depart at quieter times of day. They found their carriage and secured a compartment easily. Barton slung the luggage up onto the racks, refusing to let Coulson help, and they both threw their coats up on top with grateful sighs.

They sat in silence watching the activity on the platform and Coulson hid a smile at the way Barton was digging his long fingers into the plush upholstery with a look of amused pleasure.

There seemed to be more automatons out on the platform than Coulson remembered from his last journey a few months ago. Shiny brass heads gleamed in the light streaming down from the huge glass roof canopy as the metal creatures moved through the station carrying bags and boxes. Most of them had four wheels instead of legs and wore station uniform jackets over their torsos. These were working creatures, with plain metal 'faces' free of eyes and mouths, and human guards directed them from place to place. Coulson decided he was grateful after all that Barton had been so stubborn about carrying their bags.

Eventually the train was ready and it began slowly pulling out with a loud whistle, building up speed as it left the busy station behind.

"I didn't think you'd like trains," Barton said. "All this steam and speed."

"Unlike steam cars, trains rarely explode and they're operated by experienced men," Coulson said. "We're also a good distance from the engine so we'd probably survive if it did blow up."

"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

"I'm surrounded by machines every day operated by people who have no idea what they're doing. People who buy things because the adverts tell them how much time they'll save and how perfectly their lives will run if they can set a machine to make toast or clean floors while they do some something more important. Then something goes wrong and the toast catches fire or too much pressure builds up in the cleaning machine and half a street ends up destroyed because people were taking short-cuts."

Barton raised his eyebrows. "You've _really_ thought about this."

Coulson shrugged. "I don't hate new things, I'd just like to see more thought going into making them work safely instead of focusing on how good they look and how fast they'll go."

"You're talking to the guy who used to make a living shooting things with some sticks and a piece of string. I'm sold."

They exchanged sympathetic smiles and Coulson settled more comfortably back in his seat. "Did you travel by train much with the circus?"

"A fair bit," Barton said casually. "In America and over on the Continent we usually tried to stick to towns with train lines. Transporting an entire circus from town to town is a lot easier if you can stick it all on a freight truck rather than trying to pull it all by horse and we couldn't afford to buy enough steam cars for everything. Over here in England, it was all horse carts and wagons because your towns are so close together."

"You must have travelled to a lot of places with the circus."

"I've been most everywhere I ever want to go, sir." Barton gestured to the window where houses were giving way to the rolling little fields and green woods of the countryside. "I think I'm ready to stick to one place for a while."

"You don't want to go home?"

"Back to America?" Barton shook his head. "Can't afford to and I don't know what I'd do if I could. I'm done with the circus and there's nothing else for me there."

"That's good to hear."

"Besides, valeting is turning out to be an interesting job," Barton added with a sly grin. "Much more interesting than my aunt told me."

Coulson couldn't help smiling. "Most valets don't have the extra duties you're getting."

"Makes me glad I'm working for you, then."

The warmth in Barton's eyes made something catch in Coulson's throat. His chest felt tight and his heart sped up and for a long, long moment he could barely breathe. It was nothing he'd ever experienced before, this sense he could get lost in someone's gaze, and he wondered whether this was what falling in love really felt like. He hadn't even kissed Barton and he wanted him more than he'd wanted any other lover. The urge to reach out and touch Barton, just take his hand or trace his jaw with a finger, was almost overwhelming.

He forced his hands to clench into fists so he wouldn't do anything stupid and made himself look out of the window. Miles of English countryside passed by in uncomfortable silence.

"Have you travelled, sir?" Barton said when the quietness threatened to become too intense.

"A little." Coulson considered the question carefully before adding, "I served in the Army for a few years. My regiment was stationed in Africa for some of that time."

"Huh."

"What does that mean?"

Coulson finally looked at Barton just in time to catch his quickly hidden grin.

"Just that it makes sense of a few things."

"Such as?"

"Where you learned to fight dirty," Barton said with another quick grin. "Can't say I've seen many gentlemen who can do some of the things you do."

"I fight practically," Coulson said. "There's no sense sticking to Queensberry rules when your opponent's armed with a lead pipe and eager to kick you in the balls."

Barton's grin widened. "You like fighting dirty."

"I like to win and not get shot more often than I have to."

"It's all the same thing." Barton shrugged cheerfully. "So why aren't you still out there? You're not too old and I'd bet you were good at it."

Coulson felt his face heat and pretended it was due to the compliment on his skills rather than his age. "My older brother died in a riding accident. The Army is a good career for a younger son but it's too dangerous for an heir. My father asked me to resign my commission and come home and I couldn't refuse. He died a couple of months later - his heart gave out - and I inherited everything after always thinking I wouldn't inherit a penny."

Barton studied him carefully and Coulson tried not to twitch. He'd never met anyone who looked at him with so much intensity, as though Barton was trying to see through all the layers and find his soul.

"Your father left the estate in a bad way," Barton said thoughtfully. "You spent so much time saving it and getting everything running again, you never figured out what you'd do when it wasn't a full time job anymore. That's why you do what you do. You can't get out of the habit of doing something productive."

The guesses were so close to the truth that Coulson could only gape at Barton for a moment before he was able to collect himself. "How did you know?"

"I can't give up all my secrets." Barton's eyes twinkled cheerfully, evidently pleased with himself. "I hear things and I see things. It wasn't hard to work out."

"What else do you see and hear?"

"Like I said, I can't give up all my secrets, sir." The train chose that moment to whistle loudly and begin slowing for a station and Barton glanced out of the window with renewed interest. "Tell me about Africa, sir. Where were you stationed?"

The rest of the journey passed in quiet talk about places they'd been and for a while Coulson could pretend they were just good friends.

***

They were met at the station by a large, noisy steam car and Coulson sighed unhappily at the sight. It was black with the Carter crest on the doors and grey smoke poured from a funnel on the roof. The chauffeur sprang down with a cheerful greeting and helped Barton stow their luggage in a compartment on the back of the contraption. Coulson just stared and reminded himself that not _all_ cars exploded and he was here because Lady Carter had such a fascination for everything new and technological.

He should have expected a steam car if he'd been thinking properly.

There was a thick smell of coal and overheated water around it. At least train carriages provided a barrier between the engine and the passengers so the smell wasn't as overwhelming, Coulson mused to himself.

Barton hopped up eagerly to sit on the bench beside the chauffeur and Coulson could see the laughter in his eyes as he watched Coulson reluctantly climb into the enclosed cabin behind it. It was as comfortable and plush as the train compartment had been, almost like riding in a tiny private train carriage.

The car rattled and belched its way through a small town and out into the countryside, where the chauffeur pushed it into an extra burst of steam that made Coulson feel green. They didn't move as fast as a horse and curricle might have, but it was still faster than Coulson liked when it was such a large vehicle travelling along such narrow lanes.

It was a relief when the car hit the long, wide driveway to Carter House and the chauffeur began to slow down. They came to a neat stop in front of the house with one final belch of steam. Coulson opened the door and jumped down before the chauffeur could set a foot on the ground. There was a hint of mischievous laughter in Barton's eyes as he passed Coulson on his way to retrieve their luggage but other than that, he looked the model of a respectable valet.

Barton had even replaced his battered bowler hat with something new and his hair, for once, had been flattened down successfully.

The staff would still see him as 'not one of them' as soon as he opened his mouth and they heard his accent, but at least he wouldn't stand out as much as he would have when Coulson first saw him.

There were several steps up to the main doors, which swung open before Coulson was more than halfway up. Lady Carter was as beautiful as ever. The brown riding habit she wore and the tendrils of hair that had fallen out the tight braids coiled on her head hinted that she'd been riding this afternoon and had probably only just returned. Even a weekend party couldn't keep her away from the stables.

She held out her hands and he hurried up the last steps to take them and kiss her on both cheeks.

"Phil, I was so happy when you accepted the invitation," she said with a cheerful smile. "You'll save me from all the boring people."

"You never invite boring people," Coulson said.

He'd always been on first name basis with Peggy Carter. It felt ridiculous not to be when he'd known her since she was a ten year old girl with skinned knees and an appetite to join the boys in their war games.

"I don't invite them," Peggy said, "but somehow they end up here anyway. Come on in, we can't stand around out here all day."

Coulson reflected that her protestation wasn't true, she invited all of them with careful deliberation, but he didn't correct her. Instead he let Peggy tuck a hand around his elbow and lead him inside, with Barton following in their wake looking around uncertainly.

"I put you up in the Blue Room," she said. "Your man will have to sleep in your dressing room, we've a full house right now."

"That won't be a problem," Coulson assured her. "How is Freddie doing?"

Peggy's eyes darkened for a moment before she forced a grim smile into place. "India suits him very well. Thank you for your letter, he wouldn't have found a position so easily without it."

"I was just glad I could be of some help."

"You were more than just 'some help'. If it wasn't for you, I don't know what he'd have gotten himself into trying to get out of the trouble he'd already caused." Peggy grimaced at the confused sentence. "You know what I mean. The whole arrangement works very well for both of us."

Coulson could feel the curious looks Barton was shooting him but thankfully Peggy didn't look Barton's way. The front doors led onto a hall dominated by a wide staircase that divided into two halfway up in the grandest style. There was even a suit of armour posed on the landing. The tiles and woodwork gleamed and a footman stood discreetly to one side to take their coats and hats.

Peggy started to speak but she was interrupted by a loud clanging as a clock by the stairs struck the hour.

"Blast!" she exclaimed. "It's later than I thought. Rose is going to kill me if I don't scoot and let her turn me back into a proper lady. Can you find your rooms on your own?"

Coulson nodded and Peggy immediately picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs, somehow managing to look both elegant and energetic all at once. She'd always been like this, a bundle of activity and determination hiding under a beautiful face.

"I like her," Barton said. "What did her brother do?"

"Made the wrong kind of friends," Coulson said as he led the way upstairs and down the corridor to his bedroom. There didn't seem to be much point in pretending Freddie had been a paragon when Barton would be probably hearing the gossip from someone in the servants' hall before night fell. "Now he's safe and she's running the estate, which seems to be working out well for everyone."

The Blue Room was exactly as he remembered it: carpet and furnishings all in shades of blue with blue-striped wallpaper and the wood trims painted white. He'd always liked the light, airy feeling to the room better than the heavier, darker rooms in the rest of the house. Barton dropped their luggage on an armchair in the corner and shook his hands out.

"What's the plan, boss?" he asked casually.

Coulson glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and immediately began shrugging out of his jacket. "I need to dress for dinner and then you're free to do as you please until I retire."

"In other words, I should poke my nose into a few places and see what I can dig up."

"Find out what you can and don't get caught. We're just here for the automatons."

Barton grinned and began unpacking. "Yes, sir. Just the automatons."

***

"Phil!"

Coulson turned at the sound of his name and smiled at the sight of Pepper Potts - no, Stark now - ploughing through the chattering guests in the large drawing room. Her pretty blue eyes sparkled with good humour and she was casually holding a glass of whiskey even though almost every other woman in the room, except Lady Carter, wasn't drinking anything. Drinking before dinner felt oddly indulgent, but Coulson could appreciate the way it probably livened up some of the conversations. Pepper smoothly kissed him on the cheek and Coulson smiled at her, ignoring the raised eyebrows from a few people who didn't know her yet.

"Phil, thank god you're here," she said. "Tony found two scientists and they've been talking about electromagnetic somethings for the last hour. It's only marginally more interesting than discussing this season's new hats."

Coulson spotted Tony Stark huddling in a corner with a young woman who was speaking intently and a taller older man who was looking at them both with a bemused expression.

"Doctor Banner," Coulson noted. "I don't recognise their friend."

"Doctor Jane Foster," Pepper said. "She seems very excited about her electromagnetic somethings."

Doctor Foster made an expansive gesture and nearly knocked over a nearby vase of flowers, but none of the three noticed.

"I can see that," Coulson said. "How is married life?"

Pepper shrugged. "Great, when I see him. He's got a new obsession and you know how Tony gets when he's working on something. He keeps muttering about Hammer getting there first, whatever that means, and he won't tell me what he's working on."

"How did you get him out of his workshop for this?"

"I told him Doctor Banner would be here." Pepper grinned. "Tony's been trying to meet him for months. I might have suggested to Peggy that he'd make a great addition to this party."

"You're very good."

"Herding Tony Stark in the right direction is something I'm an expert on." Pepper took a sip of whiskey. "I just hope whatever he's working on is something we can market. The Board has been making noises ever since Tony shut down the weapons' division and now he's refusing to work on anything that doesn't run on electricity. He swears it's where technology should be heading but the market doesn't seem to be agreeing with him."

"I agree with him," Coulson said mildly.

"You would," Pepper said, making a face. "Most people don't."

It seemed oddly appropriate, in an unpleasant way, for this to be the moment when Coulson finally saw one of Lady Carter's famed automatons. He almost walked into it, unaware that it was standing just behind him, and his heart skipped a beat when he turned and found a shiny brass head so near. Peggy had dressed it in the family livery and it had a tray clenched in its slim metal hands.

"Would you care for a drink?" it said.

Red light flickered deep inside its 'eyes' in rhythm with the words and its voice sounded harsh and metallic.

Coulson cleared his throat and looked around, sighing as he spotted Peggy watching them with a teasing smile. Of course she'd sent the thing over and he couldn't pretend it hadn't spoken.

"Sir?" it queried.

"Whiskey," Coulson said.

The automaton inclined its head slightly and moved away, walking more gracefully than Coulson had expected. Unlike the models being used as porters at Paddington, this model had two legs and might almost have passed for a man if it wasn't for the head and hands.

Pepper stared after it with a fascinated expression. "They're so lifelike. Eerily lifelike. I'm glad Tony won't buy any."

"I thought he'd love the chance to get his hands into one," Coulson said.

"And have the whole world knew he'd bought a Hammer Industries product? Never." Pepper swirled her whiskey thoughtfully. "He'll never let Justin Hammer have the satisfaction. I think it's those things he's been so angry about lately. If he could build his own automaton, the Board would probably cry with happiness. The sales figures on them must be incredible."

The automaton was returning with a glass of whiskey on its tray and the liquid barely moved as it walked. Coulson watched it warily.

"Of course, they'd want us to attach guns to it," Pepper continued, "so we could sell it to the Army. I'm hearing things from the Continent and Mr Stane is pushing Tony to get Stark Industries back into the weapons business. I respect and support Tony's decision, obviously, and I know why he's refusing but if things go the way they seem to be, the Board is going to be furious at all the opportunities we're missing."

With a quiet hiss of pistons, the automaton stopped and offered up his tray. It didn't speak but it tilted its head as though it was asking for approval.

Coulson picked up his glass and waited for a moment. The automaton didn't move.

"Thank you," he said after a beat.

The automaton straightened up and red light flickered in its eyes before it smoothly turned and moved away, still clutching its tray in slim brass hands.

"Definitely creepy," Pepper said with a shudder. "I'm not sorry Tony won't have any Hammer technology in the house."

The bell to summon everyone to supper sounded and Phil found himself escorting Doctor Foster into the dining room and then sitting between her and Doctor Banner for the meal, with Pepper and Stark opposite them. The conversation was lively and thankfully free of scientific excesses. If there hadn't been two automatons serving the dishes, Coulson would have called it a very pleasant evening. Instead he had to focus on not flinching every time one of the metal footmen appeared at his elbow.

***

There were cards and games after dinner so it was late - or early in the morning depending on perspective - before Coulson returned to his room. One gaslight had been left burning in the corner and Barton was fast asleep in the armchair, his jacket and tie discarded as always. Coulson closed the door as quietly as he could and moved over to the bed. He loosened his tie as he sat down.

The motion must have disturbed Barton despite Coulson's carefulness. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled sleepily. Coulson's breath caught for a moment at the warmth and sweetness in Barton's expression.

"How late is it?" Barton's voice sounded rough and tired. "Sorry, sir, I didn't plan to fall asleep."

Coulson waved away the apology. "It's very late. Almost dawn. I should be apologising to you for keeping you up."

Barton sat up and scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it messy and sticking up in wild directions. "You didn't. This was all me. Did you have a nice evening?"

"Very nice. How about you?"

"I got asked a bunch of questions about you and about where I came from," Barton said with a wry grin. "They really like to gossip, sir."

"Did anyone say anything useful?"

"Mostly it was the usual stuff. Lots of resentment about the automatons, lots of talk about finding another position except most of the big houses now have them. Some of the maids weren't sorry to see the old footmen go because they'd both been nasty types they never liked to get caught alone with." Barton made an unhappy face. "I guess nobody told Lady Carter because she doesn't seem like the kind of person to put up with that."

"She isn't."

"That's what I figured. They didn't like the footmen, but nobody wanted to see them left destitute either. They all agree that the automatons make them uncomfortable and they're glad the rest are out working in the fields. I guess they're fashionable, but the folks buying them aren't the ones who have to spend a lot of time around them."

"Did you find out what happens to them when they're not being used?"

Barton grinned. "Sure I did, boss. Want to do a bit of poking around after everyone goes to bed tomorrow?"

Coulson matched his grin. "That sounds like fun."

"You and I have very different ideas on what's 'fun', sir."


	7. Chapter 7

_Oxfordshire, May 16th, 1908_

Carter House was dark and silent. Lady Carter firmly believed house parties should be filled with activity and refreshing outdoors fun rather than the quiet, languid affairs many people held where the most vigorous exercise was the walk from the breakfast table to the garden. As a consequence, everyone had gone to bed well before midnight as the day of hunting and other sports caught up with them.

Coulson yawned and splashed water on his face to wake himself up. While having the household in bed before midnight suited his plans perfectly, the sleepiness from a day spent on horseback and then playing a take-no-prisoners game of croquet was making his brain fuzzy. He hadn't dared lie down on the bed and nap in case he slept too long and too deeply. That was the kind of tiredness he was feeling, the type where sitting down would be lethal if he wanted to do anything constructive.

There was a tap on the door to his dressing room and Barton slipped through. Where Coulson was dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, he was still wearing his black suit trousers and white shirt and his feet were bare. He'd rolled up the sleeves and undone the top few buttons, which exposed enough of his chest to distract Coulson for a moment. Perhaps more than a moment, Coulson admitted to himself, as he forced himself to look away from Barton's muscular forearms and meet his eyes.

Barton raised his chin slightly and a hint of pink appeared on his cheeks.

"I'm still short on a few things, sir," he said. "I've had other priorities. Pyjamas weren't high on my list."

"Remind me to buy you some pyjamas when we get back to London," Coulson said mildly. "I should have thought before this. Lady Carter will think I'm a terrible employer if she catches you."

"Best make sure she doesn't, then."

As their cover story was a midnight raid on the pantry if they were caught, a story that seemed flimsier by the moment, Coulson silently agreed. The thought occurred to him that Barton probably slept naked if he didn't have anything else to wear - his clothes never looked creased from sleeping in them - and Coulson felt his own face heat slightly. He quickly ducked his head and splashed on more water, trying to cool his blush. This was not the time to speculate on how naked his valet might have been in the dressing room next door last night. Or tonight. Or any night, if he was honest.

"Ready, sir?" Barton asked.

Coulson dried his face and dropped the towel on the washstand beside the water basin. "As much as I can be."

Barton's quick grin and the speed he crossed to the bedroom door betrayed his excitement about their expedition. He'd spent the day in the house, taking care of non-existent mending and trying to look like he knew what a valet was supposed to do at events like this. Coulson had never paid much attention to what Gowan did beyond noting that sometimes the valet brought his drink out to the terrace.

From the tight, pinched look on Barton's face when Coulson had seen him after dinner, the day had been rough. He suspected the domestic staff - or at least the valets a few of the other gentlemen had brought - had noticed Barton had very little experience and they hadn't been kind. It was probably a good thing none of them would have any reason to learn about the deficiencies in Barton's wardrobe as well.

Coulson sighed and pushed the thought away. There were more important things to think about right now than making sure Barton wasn't upset or angry. Barton wouldn't tell him even if he asked, he suspected.

The hallway outside was dark when Coulson opened his door slightly and peered out. Dark and still, which was perfect for what they needed. He opened it wider and slipped out with Barton following and pulling the door shut with a quiet click. Coulson pulled out his pocket lamp and wound the small crank until the bulb flickered into life.

He let Barton lead the way along the corridor and down the wide stairs to the main hall. Instead of turning to the passage that would lead to the kitchens and other domestic rooms, Barton gestured to their left and Coulson followed him past the parlour and through to the library. The door was closed but not locked and it swung open silently.

"Here?" Coulson said curiously after he closed the door behind him.

Barton nodded. "Here. None of the staff wanted them where they could be stumbled over in the night, so Lady Carter keeps them here."

Curtains had been pulled across the tall windows so the room was in darkness. Coulson had spent hours here over the years. It was his quiet retreat when Peggy's house parties got too busy or he didn't want to ride out in the rain. In all that time, he'd never known the curtains to be closed even after darkness fell.

The house wasn't wired for electricity yet and the light from his small lamp didn't travel far. Barton produced a book of matches from his pocket and after a moment's hesitation, Coulson nodded. It took a minute to get the gaslights working but at least they didn't have to fumble around in the darkness for the automatons.

Barton whistled under his breath as he looked around the library and Coulson was reminded again that he hadn't grown up in places like this.

"That's a lot of books," Barton said quietly. "I thought you had a lot. This is...a lot."

"The Carters have been collecting books for generations," Coulson said. "Lady Carter's father used to let scholars stay here to study them. Some of the volumes here are incredibly rare."

"She doesn't do that?"

"She's not here often enough," Coulson said, "and she doesn't like people poking around the house when she's away."

"Can't say I blame her."

The walls of the library were lined with book-laden shelves and huge bookcases marched down the middle of the room. A wheeled ladder had been left propped against one stack from the last time someone had wanted a book from the higher shelves. The tall windows created alcoves between the cases and desks had been set into some of them to take advantage of the sunlight. At the far end of the room there were a couple of chairs and a sofa set around the fireplace and Coulson could remember his father and Lady Carter's father sitting there for hours talking when he was a child.

They'd always had tea or whiskey in their hands and had frowned at Coulson if he tried to venture in to borrow a book because the library was for grown-ups, not boys who couldn't keep up with their older brother and preferred reading over riding.

The two footmen-automatons stood in one of the alcoves where there had once been a desk. Their polished brass heads stood out against the dark green curtains and they looked like they could spring into life at any moment. Coulson halted a few feet from them with Barton at his shoulder.

"Do you think they know we're here?" Barton said, so softly Coulson might not have heard if they hadn't been standing close enough for Barton's breath to warm his neck.

A shiver ran down Coulson's spine but it wasn't the usual shiver of suppressed want from Barton's nearness. This was cold, a moment of fear he couldn't chase away. The automatons looked lifeless but what did that really mean?

"I don't know," he whispered.

"Thank you, sir, I feel much better now."

"They didn't do anything when we lit the gaslights," Coulson said.

"That's a good-"

Barton broke off and Coulson held his breath. A sound came, barely audible but growing closer. Footsteps. Slow and measured as though the owner was trying to be quiet despite wearing shoes with heels that tapped against the wood floor.

"Maybe they're not coming here," Barton said hopefully.

The footsteps stopped and there was a quiet click of a door handle being pushed down.

There was no time to turn off the gaslights and Coulson mentally kicked himself for assuming they'd be the only people interested in the library.

Barton tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to a window alcove a few feet from the automatons. It didn't have a desk and Coulson thought he remembered a door had been installed there years ago leading directly into the gardens. The floor length curtain would hide them, though, which was what mattered. Their rubber soles made no sound as they hurried to it and slipped behind the curtain just as they heard the door open. The alcove was narrow and Coulson found his entire left side pressed against the warmth of Barton's body while his right side was chilled by a cold draught from the door.

He hardly dared to breathe and he told himself it was entirely because he was worried about being heard and had nothing to do with his proximity to Barton. Getting breathless because the back of his hand was brushing against Barton's thigh was ridiculous.

Coulson listened to the intruder moving slowly through the library, tracking his footsteps as he went straight to the alcoves holding the automatons.

There was a long pause and them someone said, "Huh."

The voice was familiar and Coulson frowned as he tried to place it.

"I know someone's in here," the intruder said quietly. "It's not polite to hide."

Tony Stark. Coulson released a quiet, exasperated sigh. The man was irritating and abrasive but he was also a genius who would have a better idea than he did of how to disable and examine an automaton. As much as he hated the idea of admitting he was hiding behind a curtain with his valet to Tony Stark, of all people, there were wider considerations to think about. After all, it wasn't as though Stark would figure out he was the masked vigilante the police were searching for. Stark might even believe it was simple curiosity that had brought him to a library in the middle of the night to examine an automaton.

He started to move and felt Barton's hand fasten around his wrist, holding him back. It was too dark to see Barton's expression but his imagination could fill in the details: worried, confused and maybe a hint of interest in how things would play out.

"We don't have a choice," Coulson said quietly, hopefully too quietly for Stark to hear.

Barton didn't answer but he released Coulson's wrist, which was an answer in itself.

Stark looked torn between stunned surprise and amusement when Coulson stepped out from the curtain. His knowing smirk when Barton revealed himself and moved to stand just behind Coulson's shoulder made Coulson want to flush and fidget uncomfortably. He resisted the urge and kept his expression neutral but he wasn't sure how much good it did. Even though Stark often seemed too absorbed in his work to notice the people around him, Coulson knew he was a sharp observer. He wouldn't have stayed at the top of Stark Industries for so long if he wasn't.

"This isn't what I expected," Stark said with a cheerful smirk.

Coulson crossed his arms over his chest. "Who did you expect?"

"Doctor Banner. Maybe Doctor Foster, but Banner seemed the most likely. If it can't be seen through a telescope, Foster isn't interested." Stark tilted his head curiously. "You were low on my list. And I don't even know who your...friend is."

"My valet," Coulson said firmly. "Mr Barton."

"Your valet. Huh."

The knowing smile was starting to get on Coulson's nerves and he had a feeling that no matter how hard he protested, Stark wasn't going to believe Barton was just his valet. Stark would pretend he didn't believe it just to see whether he could get a reaction. It was one of his less endearing qualities and Coulson had never understood how Pepper lived with him.

Barton shifted restless and Coulson didn't dare turn to look at him. It was obvious to anyone with ears what Stark was implying. There was no way Barton wasn't picking up on it and Coulson didn't want to see what he was thinking.

"His valet," Barton said quietly and firmly. "Among other things."

Coulson sighed and wished he was the kind of man who could put his hands over his face and pretend he wasn't there. Barton had played right into Stark's innuendos and the delighted expression on Stark's face only made it worse. At the same time, a tiny part of Coulson's couldn't help focusing on the part where Barton didn't seem shocked or horrified by the insinuations. He even sounded slightly amused. Or maybe proud might have been closer to the truth, although Coulson told himself that was completely his imagination.

"I approve of your taste in valets," Stark said. "Pepper will be delighted."

There was a soft snort of laughter from Barton's direction and Coulson wondered exactly what Barton was finding so funny about this. Then he decided he didn't want to know because it couldn't be good.

"What are you doing down here, Stark?" Coulson asked, trying to get the conversation back to where it should be.

Stark watched them for a moment before shrugging and turning to the automatons. "The same thing as you are, probably. Looking at these."

"Why?"

"Why are you here?"

"Curiosity."

"About?"

Coulson smiled thinly. "The same thing as you."

"Well, I'm curious about a lot of things." Stark nodded to the shiny metal creatures. "Right now, I'm curious about how Justin Hammer managed to make thinking, independent robots before I could. He's an idiot, most of his machines blow up or fall apart an hour after they leave the shop floor, and yet he's built these. Dozens of them, all doing complicated jobs and performing them perfectly. How did he do it?"

"You sound jealous," Barton said.

"Not jealous," Stark corrected. "Intrigued. He's doing something impossible and making it look easy. That always interests me. That and the part where every now and again one goes crazy and kills people."

Coulson froze and he heard Barton inhale sharply.

Stark grinned. "I don't know how you heard and I'm not going to ask, not yet, but that's got to be why you're here. Right? You can't be thinking of buying one so that only leaves one option."

"What do you know?" Coulson asked.

"More than you, probably. I've got at least five cases and so far I can't get the police interested in any of them."

"I've got two. One of them was the only son."

The last thing Coulson expected was to see in Stark's eyes was sympathy so it took him by surprise.

"What's your plan?" Barton asked.

"My plan is to take one apart," Stark said. "Find out how it ticks and what makes them randomly go crazy. I'm guessing you were planning to do the same thing."

"We were thinking about it," Coulson said.

"That was going to be an unbelievably stupid idea. These things don't just let you take off their casings and poke around inside. You have to disable them."

"And you know how to do that?"

Stark held up two small black devices, one in each hand. "Of course I do."

"Have you done this to any other automatons?" Barton asked.

"Not yet," Stark said. "But the theory's good."

Before Coulson could say anything or move to stop him, Stark darted forward and slapped his devices onto the smooth metal heads of the automatons. He held them there for a moment with his eyes screwed shut and then he cautiously opened one eye.

"I'm not dead," Stark observed, looking relieved. "That's good."

"Is he always like this?" Barton asked.

Coulson sighed. "Yes, unfortunately."

They all watched the automatons for another long minute but nothing happened. Their eyes stayed dark and dead, their bodies remained frozen. Stark reached out and prodded one of them and then rapped on its head. His knuckles made a dull, hollow sound against the brass.

"Can you two give me a hand?" Stark asked, pulling a little tool pouch out of his pocket.

The automaton was heavier than it looked. It took all three of them to carefully lower it to the floor face down so Stark could unscrew the casing on the back of its head. He sat back on his heels when he lifted it away and for the first time, Coulson saw confusion on Stark's face.

"That makes no sense," Stark muttered. "Where's the brain?"

He reached in and felt around. Coulson knelt beside him and peered in but the head was empty. There was nothing in there.

"Maybe not everything keeps its brain in its head," Barton said thoughtfully.

Stark snorted. "Not just pretty, then. Good thought, let's see."

Stark put the head back together easily but rolling the automaton over so they could open its shirt and access its chest had to be done slowly and carefully. Coulson was keenly aware of the amount of time passing and the tense lines around Barton's eyes told him that he wasn't the only one.

The automaton's chest was smooth and looked like copper. Coulson could feel faint vibrations against his fingertips when he rested his hand on it and the metal was warm to the touch. Feeling that hint of life in a creature made of metal and gears was oddly unsettling and Coulson was not sorry when Stark pushed him aside to work on opening it up.

The chest plate was more complicated to open than the head. Stark tried three different screwdrivers from his pouch to loosen the different bolts and screws that secured it before sitting back on his heels and running a hand through his hair with an irritated expression. There was a smear of oil on his forehead, which seemed to be Stark's natural state unless Pepper was trying to make him presentable for an event.

"That bastard," Stark muttered. "He's playing with me."

"Maybe he just doesn't want people messing around inside his things," Barton suggested. "Trade secrets, that kind of thing. It's what I'd do."

Stark tapped the chest plate. "He'd want someone to be able to get into them to make repairs. Hammer's a jealous idiot, but he wouldn't weld the important parts shut so no one could get to them. I've just got to find the key."

Finding it turned out to be more difficult than anything else they'd done because they had to manipulate the rigid metal body to remove most of its uniform. The 'key' turned out to be a tiny button high on the inside of the automaton's leg. Stark rolled his eyes when he found it, muttering something about Justin Hammer's bad sense of humour. Coulson couldn't help admiring the intelligence behind the design: it wasn't hard to find, but a casual snooper wouldn't be able to get to it unless they had the time and resources to strip an automaton and hunt for it. Anyone who owned an automaton might be able to find it, eventually, if they wanted to poke around and do their own repairs on a broken machine. Everyone else would be locked out.

Unless they had Stark's little devices and a few hours to work.

Using a pen, Stark pushed the button and there was a quiet click as the chest plate finally released. Barton helped Stark to lift it away and set it carefully to one side. Unlike the head, the chest cavity was filled with machinery. Even inactive, it was obviously still doing _something_ because there were gears and levers moving.

"How is it powered?" Barton asked curiously.

Stark frowned thoughtfully. "It appears to be self-winding, mostly. Very clever. But this-" he tapped a small copper tank just visible in the base of the chest - "looks like a boiler. Probably to keep the mechanisms wound if it's inactive for more than a few hours. Hammer may actually be almost as clever as he says he is."

"How does it get coal in?" Barton leaned over the exposed mechanism to examine it more closely. "It's got to burn something to create steam."

Stark cautiously felt underneath the automaton for a moment and chuckled. "It works on the opposite principal to how you get waste out of a human body."

Barton made a disgusted face. "That is just wrong in so many ways."

"It's practical, though."

"It's still wrong."

"What else can you see?" Coulson asked before they could get derailed by juvenile jokes.

"Give me a bit of time," Stark said. "This is complicated machinery. I can't just look at it and instantly know what it does."

Coulson refrained from commenting that Stark often tried to pretend he could do exactly that. It would be undignified and he suspected Stark was already miles away in a world of cogs and gears already. He stepped back and a moment later Barton straightened up and joined him a few feet from where Stark was poking at things and humming quietly.

"Is he always like that?" Barton asked quietly.

"Usually he's worse."

Time seemed to tick past slowly as Stark examined the machinery inside the automaton's chest and muttered to himself under his breath. Coulson was uncomfortably aware that sooner or later the household would start to wake up and they needed to be back in their beds before that happened. It was bad enough Stark knew he was interested, he didn't want to be answering Peggy Carter's questions about his interest in her property because she was far too insightful to let 'curiosity' pass as an explanation. He had to restrain the urge to hurry Stark or throw questions at him and he guessed Barton was doing the same. Barton's sharp gaze was fixed on Stark's hands but he was fiddling with something in his trouser pocket. An arrowhead or a scrap of feather, probably. It was a habit Coulson had noticed over the months.

"Well I'll be damned."

Stark gestured excitedly and pointed inside the cavity. Coulson exchanged a glance with Barton and they both moved to kneel on the other side of the robot and peer in.

"What is that?" Coulson asked.

More of the workings seemed to be visible now and there was a small pile of metal plates and covers stacked by Stark's knee. His finger hovered just above what looked like a small, bulbous glass or crystal filled with something that gave off a sickly green glow.

"If I could pull it out and get Doctor Banner to look at it, I'd be more sure," Stark said, "but it looks like that's the control mechanism. The brain. Well, sort of. Not really a brain, more like...a connection to a brain somewhere else. I've been trying to work out how Hammer got semi-sentient automatons to even work, given our current levels of technology and his hatred of electricity. You can't just tell a pile of cogs and screws to do something and have them do it without any further instructions, not the way these things do anyway. So I was theorising they weren't really independent after all. There's some kind of remote control centre they're connected to - maybe more than one - that's interpreting the instructions and turning them into something they _can_ do and that looks like my proof. Maybe. I need to get Doctor Banner into one of these things. He knows more about electromagnetic radiation and radio waves than I do, it's not really my field. But if I'm right then all of Hammer's automatons are linked up and processing their instructions through some kind of central brain."

Coulson hesitated for a moment as a dozen potential implications crowded his mind. "Is Hammer Industries the only company making these?"

"The only one."

"That's worrying."

"I know." Stark frowned down at the automaton for a moment before beginning to carefully and efficiently replace the parts he'd taken out. "It's got to make you wonder what's happening when they go crazy. Maybe losing contact with their controller sends them out of control?"

"Or maybe it's an instruction," Barton said slowly. "If the instructions their owners give are being processed through a central controller, maybe extra instructions can be inserted."

Stark grinned. "Coulson, your valet is much more useful than he looks. How much are you paying him? I'll triple it."

"He's not for sale," Coulson said at the same time as Barton said, "No deal."

Coulson didn't dare look at Barton but he could feel a small, pleased smile tugging at his mouth and swallowed it down.

"Too bad," Stark said lightly. "Help me with this, can you?"

A clock somewhere was chiming the hour when they finally got the automaton dressed and standing next to its twin. Four o'clock, so the staff would be stirring soon. Stark gestured for Coulson and Barton go ahead while he carefully removed his automaton disabling devices. Coulson nodded and hurried out, hoping Stark would remember to turn out the gaslights before he left.

It was too risky to use the lamp again on their way back to Coulson's room so they stumbled through the darkness as quietly as they could and almost ran the final few steps when they heard a door slam somewhere in the house. Coulson's heart was racing as he pushed the bedroom door closed and rested his back against it. Roaming a house in the middle of the night was a nerve-wracking experience when it wasn't empty.

He tried not to react when Barton leaned back against the door beside him and bumped their shoulders together companionably. It wasn't appropriate to be this familiar with his valet but the warm weight against his arm felt too good to push away. Instead Coulson turned his head and smiled at the exhilarated sparkle in Barton's eyes.

"I had no idea valeting would be this much fun," Barton said with a wide grin.

Coulson couldn't fight down his smile. "In a normal household, it isn't."

"Then I'm glad I ended up in your household." Barton turned his head and Coulson found himself caught in Barton's gaze. "Very glad."

There was a charge in the air, something electric and intense that made Coulson's breath catch in his throat. It felt like that moment by the window again, the same heavy weight of possibility between them waiting for someone to do something. Coulson wondered whether Barton could feel it as well and then he realised Barton's gaze had dropped. Not far, just enough so it seemed like Barton was watching his lips.

Coulson's mouth suddenly felt very dry and he swallowed.

Barton swallowed as well and his eyes flicked up to meet Coulson's again.

The expression Coulson read there was enough to send his heart racing: heat, hope, and longing all mixed into something so strong it was impossible to stay blind to it. He wondered what Barton saw in his own eyes, whether Barton saw the same emotions mirrored there.

Time seemed to slow down and for a long, long moment Coulson felt paralysed. He wanted to do something, or say something, but he couldn't in case he broke the spell holding them here and none of this turned out to be real.

Later he couldn't have said who moved first or whether they both moved together. All Coulson knew was that there was a time when he was frozen in place watching Barton and then they were kissing and he had no real memory of what happened in between.

How it happened didn't matter. What mattered was that Barton's lips were soft at first, kissing slowly and gently as though he was afraid Coulson would disappear. They leaned against each other, necks craned awkwardly and only their shoulders touching until Coulson lifted a hand to rest a finger on Barton's jaw. Just the tip of his finger, nothing more, enough to feel the fine stubble over Barton's smooth skin and try to communicate that he wanted this and he didn't want to scare Barton away.

Not that Barton seemed like the kind of man who would be scared away by many things but Coulson wasn't going to take any chances when he finally had something he'd been dreaming about for weeks. If he only had one chance at this then he was going to take it.

Barton seemed to take the hint: he pushed away from the door to press his whole body against Coulson's. His hands gripped Coulson's hips and the kiss became firmer, less like a question and more like a plea for Coulson to want him.

Coulson cupped his jaw and kissed him with everything he had, trying to make sure Barton knew exactly how much he wanted this and wanted him. Heat was building low in his gut and Coulson could feel his control slipping, need starting to overwhelm his usual caution. Tearing out of the kiss felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do but he did it, resting his head back against the door while he tried to catch his breath.

There was a pause and then Barton suddenly tensed and tried to move away.

"Shit, sir, I'm so sorry," he said quickly. "It's-"

Coulson put a finger over Barton's lips and wrapped his other arm around Barton's waist, holding him loosely enough that he could get away if he really wanted to but trying to let him know that wasn't what Coulson wanted. Barton's face was flushed and his eyes were so dark they were almost black, proof enough that he'd been as lost in the kiss as Coulson had. He seemed to search Coulson's face for a long moment before relaxing with a sigh.

"Sir?" he asked carefully.

Coulson smiled and nodded. The bright smile that spread across Barton's face would have made Coulson's heart race if it hadn't already been beating like he'd run a marathon. He couldn't resist another hard, quick kiss so he could feel the smile against his lips.

"How long?" he asked.

Barton ducked his head and then looked up through his eyelashes with a surprisingly shy smile. "Since that night in the warehouse."

Coulson blinked. "You didn't even know who I was. You didn't see my face."

"I knew you saved my life," Barton said. "And then you saved my life the next day by taking me in. I didn't know you were both the same person then, but when I did it just...made sense."

"Oh."

Barton's smile turned mischievous. "Then I got to see you naked in the bath and I was gone. Sir."

"I think you can stop calling me 'sir' when we're alone," Coulson said, trying not to blush at Barton's words and expression. "It doesn't seem appropriate anymore."

"What should I call you?" Barton tilted his head thoughtfully. "Coulson? Phil?"

"Which do you prefer?"

Barton seemed to consider the question carefully, much more carefully than Coulson would have expected. "I'll let you know."

"I told myself I was imagining things," Coulson said.

There was a teasing smile on Barton's lips as he leaned in for another kiss. "Does that feel like your imagination?"

"I don't think my imagination is that good."

The next kiss was definitely not his imagination either and Coulson sighed into it. He wanted to get lost in it and forget the world outside his bedroom but a clock chimed somewhere in the house and a moment later there was the sound of a door slamming and then footsteps overhead. Barton looked ridiculously disappointed when Coulson reluctantly pulled away from the kiss and rested their foreheads together.

"Not here," Coulson said. "Not now. The house is waking up. It's too risky."

Barton was silent for a long time before he nodded. "When?"

"When we get home," Coulson said. "When we're in our own home where no one can disturb us. I want to take my time and kiss every inch of you."

They were standing close enough that Coulson could feel the way Barton shivered at his words.

"I'll hold you to that," Barton said breathlessly. "I've got a really good memory."

"So have I."

The hot, fierce kiss Barton gave him almost made Coulson's resolve waver, but Barton pulled away and stepped back quickly. His hair was standing up in wild spikes and his lips were red and wet from kissing. Coulson suspected he looked equally mussed and he instinctively pulled his dressing gown tighter, ignoring the amused grin Barton gave him.

"I should..." Barton gestured to the door to the dressing room where he was supposed to be sleeping. "Goodnight?"

Coulson had to remind himself firmly that asking Barton to stay would be a really bad idea, even if nothing happened other than some kissing and cuddling.

"Goodnight," he said quietly.

Barton smiled as though he knew exactly what Coulson was thinking. It brought an answering smile to Coulson's lips that stayed as Barton walked to the dressing room door and closed it behind him. Coulson shrugged out of his dressing gown and draped it over a chair before sliding into bed. After such a busy night he should have been exhausted, but instead Coulson's mind raced and he lay awake for a long time.


	8. Chapter 8

_Oxfordshire, May 17th, 1908_

Sunday brunch in Carter House was a casual affair and the breakfast room had been set up with warming dishes on the sideboard so guests could serve themselves as they drifted down from their bedrooms. There were no automatons in sight when Coulson arrived, which was a relief after the night's discoveries. He wasn't sure he could calmly eat and drink while the automatons watched him and possibly fed the information back to who knew where.

Finding out where the automatons' control centre was located had to be one of his priorities now. Coulson had spent what was left of his sleepless night alternating between worrying about who might be controlling the automatons and worrying that Barton might change his mind about what they had started. When he'd finally drifted into a light doze sometime after dawn, his dreams had been a disturbing confusion of faceless men sending metal creatures with Barton's face out into the streets of London.

He'd woken feeling exhausted and unsettled and sat up reading to take his mind off everything.

His fears about Barton, at least, had been easily resolved. There had been a cautious, hopeful expression in Barton's eyes when he slipped in just before nine to wake Coulson up and he'd hesitated for a moment when he realised Coulson was already awake. Coulson had set his book aside and given Barton what he hoped was a calm, reassuring smile.

It must have been the right expression because Barton's face had lit up and he'd leaned over to press a kiss on the corner of Coulson's mouth. Coulson thought he should probably protest - they were still in someone else's house, after all - but he was too relieved and he'd pulled Barton down for a more thorough kiss instead.

The memory of the kiss and the way Barton had carefully straightened his tie and patted down his jacket before he left the bedroom brought a smile to Coulson's face that he couldn't completely hide. Somehow the ordinary tasks Barton had performed every day for weeks were now taking on new significance. There had been something intimate and beautiful in the way Barton tugged his jacket straight and smiled at him before shooing him downstairs.

The sound of someone calling his name pulled Coulson out of his introspection and he looked up to find Peggy and Pepper smiling at him and gesturing to the chair on Pepper's left. Most of the other guests seemed to be choosing seats at the long table based on friendships instead of a seating plan and Coulson smiled and nodded. He quickly filled a plate with food and took his seat. Any thoughts about automatons were chased away as Pepper and Peggy quietly filled him in on all the gossip they'd gleaned over the weekend and Coulson was feeling almost cheerful by the time brunch was finished.

There would be a light meal later and then most people were planning to leave, which usually resulted in a steady flow of cabs between the House and the station. Coulson had spotted a couple of large steam cars behind the stables so he guessed that a few people had brought their own transport. He'd already asked Peggy for an ordinary, horse-drawn carriage to take him and Barton to the station and she'd laughed and agreed. Apparently he wasn't the only guest who still found steam cars unnerving

Coulson was crossing the main hall after brunch, planning to check on the packing with Barton, when Stark waylaid him.

"Walk with me?" Stark asked. "I need to stretch my legs before I'm trapped in a car for hours this afternoon."

There were several other guests in earshot so Coulson shrugged and agreed. They walked in comfortable silence out to a lake half a mile from the house. It was the longest Coulson had ever known Stark to stay quiet but the look of frowning concentration on his face warned Coulson not to interrupt. The sun was warm and the air was still so Coulson was feeling a little too warm in his heavy suit by the time Stark stopped in the welcome shade of a small folly shaped as a Greek temple.

"I assume there's a reason we're out here - beyond the view," Coulson said.

"It's a nice view," Stark said.

"But not what you're here to discuss."

"No." Stark lowered his voice, even though there was clearly no one within earshot. "I'm not going to ask why you're really interested in the automatons. It's none of my business."

"I appreciate your discretion."

"I can keep a secret when I have to."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. "What do you need from me?"

"Straight to the point, I like that." Stark flashed him a quick grin. "Fine. We both have an interest in finding out where the automatons are being controlled from. Agreed? Then we should work together. I've got the contacts to find the control centre but you seem like the kind of guy who might know how to get into it and what we do from there."

A chill went down Coulson's spine. "What do you mean?"

Stark shrugged. "Just that you and your valet seem a lot more comfortable sneaking around in the dark than you should be. And you're suddenly looking very nervous, which is interesting. Very interesting. I don't know what you two are up and I really don't care, but I can't take down Hammer on my own and you're already up to something so we should combine resources."

"Why do you assume Hammer needs to be taken down?"

"He's building automatons that are killing people and the police are being curiously incurious about it. The whole thing stinks but I don't know what his plan is. Yet. That's where you and your valet come in."

Coulson forced his expression to remain blank. "And if we don't help you?"

"I can't force you," Stark said seriously. "And despite what you might have heard, I'm not the kind of man who uses blackmail. Whatever you and your valet are into, I'm not going to pry. I'm not going to hold it over you. It's your business."

"But?"

"No buts. You're free to walk away right now if you want to and I'll forget everything I saw last night."

"You didn't see anything."

"Sure I didn't," Stark drawled. "Jesus, I hope you two are better at pretending around other people. Point is, I'm letting you walk away and I'll never say another word. But you seem like an honourable man and Pepper thinks the world of you so I'm asking you. I hate asking people for things. Please, work with me and we'll figure out what the hell is going on here."

Coulson stared out over the lake for a long moment, his mind racing. On the one hand, Stark had made some guesses that were too close to the truth for comfort. On the other hand, everything he knew from Pepper said the man could be trusted to keep his word. If he said he wasn't going to use what he'd guessed then he wouldn't.

Walking away was an option, but Coulson sensed it was the wrong one. He'd been trying to find a way into this mystery for weeks and now he had the best chance he was going to get. The answer he had to give was obvious.

"How do you plan to find the control centre?" Coulson asking, holding out his hand.

Stark grinned and shook it. "I'm working on that. I've got a couple of ideas."

"Really?"

"I've got to go to Bristol tonight," Stark said. "Pepper seems to think factory inspections are important. I'll be back in town tomorrow night. Call on me Tuesday morning and we can start plotting. Bring the valet, he seems useful."

The eager, excited look in Stark's eyes was almost as worrying as his comment about Barton being useful and Coulson tried not to feel worried about what he'd just committed them both to.

***

Coulson didn't mention the deal he'd made with Stark until he and Barton were on the train home that afternoon with the compartment door firmly closed. Then he outlined his talk with Stark and waited nervously for Barton's reaction.

Barton stared out of the window for a while, his face thoughtful and clearly not paying any attention to the passing countryside.

"Do you trust him?" Barton asked eventually.

"Stark?" Coulson hesitated. "Pepper trusts him and I trust her."

The piercing look Barton gave him made Coulson shift uncomfortably.

"Why?" Barton asked.

"Why do I trust her?"

Barton nodded and Coulson took a moment to form his thoughts because this seemed like a question loaded with more than just a casual interest.

"I've known her since she was a child," Coulson said carefully. "She was the daughter of my father's old estate manager. I was a few years older than her and it was like having a younger sister sometimes. When Potts died, my father made sure Pepper had an education and a good job, which is how she met Stark."

"So she's not a, uh..." Barton stuttered and trailed away uncertainly.

"We never had a romantic relationship," Coulson said firmly.

Barton grinned. "I wasn't worried."

"Of course you weren't."

"Are you planning to tell Stark about your secret identity?" Barton asked with a teasing smile.

"Not unless it becomes necessary, no. He doesn't want to know and that suits all of us, I think." Coulson allowed himself a small smile. "Do you mind me making arrangements without consulting you?"

"You're the boss," Barton said lightly. "I'm just the guy taking orders."

"You're a lot more than that."

The look Barton gave him, a mixture of surprise and happiness, made warmth settle in Coulson's chest and he had to fight down the urge to lean across and kiss Barton just to feel the smile against his lips. Instead he 'accidentally' tapped Barton's foot with his own and felt a happy glow when Barton returned the gesture.

***

Paddington Station was sleepy and quiet when the train finally pulled in. There had been delays that left the train sitting in sidings for over an hour so it was into the evening when they disembarked. Coulson blamed exhaustion for the way he flinched when a brass porter suddenly appeared next to them with a luggage cart.

It emitted a disappointed whistle when Barton shook his head and picked up their bags unaided. A woman with a large, feather-bedecked hat and a huge pile of bags and trunks quickly beckoned the automaton over and Coulson exchanged a tired smile with Barton as two human porters joined it.

"Do you think they've got the same workings as the domestic ones?" Barton asked as they walked down the platform.

"Probably," Coulson said. "I'd imagine they're all the same inside. They just have different casings and appendages depending on their function."

"The ones out in Lady Carter's fields have wheels," Barton said. "And two of them have sickles instead of arms."

Coulson considered that configuration carefully for a moment. "That's worrying."

"That's what I thought. If one of those goes crazy, it wouldn't be pretty."

They had to watch two steam cars go past before they managed to hail a horse-drawn cab so the sun was just setting when they arrived in Walden Square. Coulson closed the front door with a tired sigh and the temptation to just trudge upstairs and fall on his bed face-first was almost overwhelming. Barton set the bags down and switched on the lights. He looked almost as tired as Coulson felt.

"Are you hungry, sir?" Barton asked.

Coulson opened his mouth to say 'no' but his stomach made a quiet gurgling sound and completely derailed the attempt. Instead he shrugged ruefully and said, "Apparently I am."

Barton's understanding smile made him feel better. "So am I. I'll see what I can rustle up. Shouldn't take me long - you could wait in your office while I fix something. Eggs and toast alright?"

He was already moving down the hall in kitchen's direction and Coulson told himself he was going to do exactly what Barton suggested right up until the moment he passed through the kitchen door. Barton's expression when he turned around was filled with amused exasperation.

"What are you doing, sir?" he asked.

"Are you really planning to set a table and serve me tonight?"

"Shouldn't I?"

"Not unless you're planning to sit at the table with me." Barton looked too startled to say anything so Coulson carried on. "Or we could both sit here at the kitchen table and eat whatever we can make between us. It won't cause a scandal, I promise."

"It's not the scandal I'm worried about," Barton said. "Nobody's going to see."

"Then what is it?"

"It's...is this because we kissed?"

Coulson thought about his response carefully before answering. "Yes, but not the way you're probably thinking. If we hadn't kissed, I'd still want to sit at your kitchen table tonight eating eggs and toast. I wouldn't know how to ask so I wouldn't, but I'd want to."

"And now things are changing."

"I want them to." Coulson took a careful step forward. "Unless you don't?"

He wasn't aware that he was holding his breath until Barton closed the distance between them and took his hand, lacing their fingers together before leaning in for a slow, thoughtful kiss.

"Change can be good," Barton said when he pulled back. "How handy are you with a bread knife?"

A few minutes later, Coulson found himself tasked with cutting a loaf of slightly stale bread into thick slices for toast while Barton scrambled eggs and whistled tunelessly. It was the most quietly domestic job he'd done since his army days. Mrs Driver had always chased him out of the kitchen if he wanted as much as a slice of bread and butter never mind helping with supper. As he carefully held out the bread on the toasting fork and tried not to burn it, he was surprised by how content he felt.

They didn't talk much while they ate, but Barton's foot rested against Coulson's and every now and again their eyes met and they smiled. It might have been one of the happiest meals Coulson could remember.

Barton insisted on cleaning the dishes and tidying the kitchen, even though he looked exhausted, so Coulson dried plates and tried to pretend he knew where they were kept even though it was obvious he didn't. The teasing grin he got when Barton took the plates out of his hands was worth it.

The lingering kiss Barton gave him when they finished was more than worth it, Coulson decided, and the heated look Barton gave him after sent warm tingles down his spine. It was almost enough to chase some of the exhaustion away so he took Barton's hand and tugged him to the door. There had been a thrum of anticipation lurking at the back of his mind all day, a feeling he'd been trying not to examine too closely just in case he was reading everything wrong. Coulson couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this mixture of nervousness and excitement. Maybe never.

Barton didn't release him even when he stopped to scoop up their bags so they walked up the stairs hand in hand. The bedroom was lit only by moonlight and Coulson drew Barton into his arms as soon as they closed the door. He tried to put everything he was feeling into the kiss, but a jaw-aching yawn forced him to stop.

The yawn seemed to be the trigger for all the exhaustion from a sleepless night and a tiring day to crash over him and Coulson had to blink a few times to get his eyes to open properly. They kept wanting to drift shut and they felt gritty and sore. He gave himself a mental kick and tried to pull Barton into another kiss, but this time it was Barton's turn to yawn and sigh.

"I don't think this is working tonight," Barton said with a disappointed frown. "Sir...Phil, I'm too tired. I want to but I can't. Sorry."

Coulson gave him a wry smile. "Don't be. I'm not feeling any better than you are."

"Maybe I should just go."

The thought of another night in an empty bed made Coulson's chest ache. He cupped Barton's cheek and rubbed his thumb over Barton's lips, feeling an odd sense of pride when Barton's eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

"Stay," he said quietly. "Just to sleep."

Barton searched his face for a moment before nodding.

"I still don't have any pyjamas," Barton said and his expression turned mischievous. "Unless that doesn't bother you."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "Barton, I'm tired. Not dead. You can borrow some of mine."

"You'd have that much trouble resisting me naked?"

"Resisting you, yes. I'm really too tired. Not being affected by you naked in my bed?" Coulson nipped his lips playfully. "It wouldn't be a restful night and tomorrow night I plan to be completely rested for you."

"I like the sound of that."

In the end, Barton's muscular shoulders were too wide for Coulson's pyjama jackets and he could only borrow the trousers. They were a little too long on him and Coulson couldn't entirely suppress his smile at the sight of Barton's feet peeking out from the pool of fabric around his ankles. Out of a sense of fairness and solidarity, Coulson left his own pyjama jacket in the drawer and told himself that he definitely wasn't hoping Barton would appreciate it. Coulson turned his back while Barton changed and pretended Barton had done the same for him, even though the red in Barton's cheeks betrayed him. Climbing into the wide bed together should have felt odd but it felt strangely right.

They lay back-to-back with a foot of space between them for a long moment before Coulson rolled over and spooned up against Barton. He kissed Barton's bare shoulder and smiled against the skin when Barton grabbed his hand and laced their fingers together again.

"Goodnight, Barton," he whispered.

"Clint. You should call me Clint sometime."

Coulson felt Barton's breathing slowing into a steady rhythm almost immediately. Sleep tugged at him as well, but he lay thinking for a while instead before softly saying, "Sleep well, Clint."

***

Coulson woke up when Clint left. In the night they'd switched positions and the loss of Clint's warmth against his back made him shiver.

Clint nuzzled a kiss just under his ear and whispered, "Daisy will be here in a couple of hours. Don't think you want her to find me sneaking out of your bed."

Knowing Clint was right, that pulling him back into the bed would only result in them both sleeping until well after Daisy arrived, didn't make Coulson feel any happier. There was a sleepy chuckle near his ear and Clint kissed him again before tucking the covers more firmly around his shoulders. Coulson tracked the rustles as Clint gathered up clothing and then there was the soft click of the door.

The bed was colder without Clint and Coulson half expected to lie awake for hours but sleep dragged him down almost as soon as the door closed.

***

He slept for hours and woke up to the smell of coffee, feeling more rested than he'd been in years. Clint smiled over his shoulder as he opened the curtains and Coulson flushed slightly when he realised Clint's eyes were on his bare chest rather than his face.

"That's a good look on you," Clint said quietly with a quick look to the closed door. "My first morning here, I almost spilled your coffee on you because I couldn't stop looking."

Coulson resisted the urge to pull the covers around his shoulders as he sat up and reached for his cup. The expression in Clint's eyes was hungry and hot, which was unhelpful when he knew Daisy was somewhere in the house. They definitely couldn't do anything while she was around.

"I was mortified that morning," he said instead.

"Why?"

"Because you were so beautiful and I felt like the lowest kind of person for all the things I was thinking about you. I really hadn't intended to greet you on your first morning..." he trailed off and waved a hand vaguely. "Like that. Underdressed."

Clint chuckled. "I could see that, don't worry. You made it pretty obvious you were embarrassed and it wasn't intentional. It's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before - circus, remember? There's not much modesty when you're running to change costumes in two minutes flat."

"You had to do that?"

"Sometimes."

Coulson sipped his coffee thoughtfully, trying to imagine Clint wearing bright colours and spangles in the circus ring. The image was surprisingly easy to conjure up.

"Keep looking at me like that and I won't care about what Daisy sees and hears, sir," Clint said with a mischievous grin. "Stop it."

"I was just-"

"I need to start breakfast," Clint said quickly, "before you get us both into trouble."

There was a happy, bright shine in Clint's eyes as he left and Coulson was surprised by how much he liked knowing he'd been responsible for it. They'd barely exchanged more than a few kisses and he could already feel himself falling further for Clint. The idea should have been terrifying but it wasn't.

It was something as far from terrifying as possible.

***

Clint brought the post and the _Times_ to the breakfast table with the toast rack. He tapped the newspaper when he set it down.

"No Thames Ripper today," he said. "And no photos of exploding steam cars."

Coulson scanned the headlines quickly and nodded. "It's almost quiet."

"No automatons either," Clint said.

"Did you expect any?"

"No, but I was just thinking. We've stumbled onto two incidents by accident. Stark says he knows about five. If the papers aren't reporting them then how many do you think have really gone crazy? We'd never know, would we?"

"We wouldn't."

"That isn't comforting."

Coulson sighed and buttered a slice of toast. "What worries me most is how much influence whoever is behind this has to have kept it out of the papers and away from the police. Even if the automatons are killing by accident, covering up what they're doing is a deliberate act. That means someone knows what they're doing and that person has a reason to keep it quiet."

"You're full of cheerful thoughts today."

***

After breakfast Clint disappeared into the kitchen. Daisy was still cleaning in the house so Coulson couldn't follow. Instead he hid away in his study but he couldn't settle to anything. There was correspondence to catch up on and a long missive from Sitwell to read, but none of it held his attention. He tried focussing on a book and found himself rereading at the same paragraph five times without taking any of it in.

Everything seemed small and inconsequential when there were more serious matters to think about. A sense of urgency was starting to build in his mind, a feeling that he'd been wasting time and now he needed to do something. Anything.

Time was running out.

There was no logical reason to be feeling it, but Coulson couldn't seem to push the thought away. He'd had the pieces of an automaton in his dresser drawer for weeks and he should have done something about them. The blood in the tailor's shop had been easy to read and he'd put the mystery aside, more concerned about keeping his own secrets than digging into it. Now he could feel time slipping through his fingers too quickly and there was nothing he could do. Stark wouldn't be back from Bristol until late and Coulson didn't know who else it was safe to talk to.

Clint seemed distracted at midday: he served a cold lunch and barely spoke beyond checking that Coulson didn't want a second slice of pheasant pie. It was odd behaviour for him but Daisy was industriously scrubbing the hall floor so Coulson couldn't follow Clint when he returned to the kitchen. Coulson had to wait until Daisy finally left in the middle of the afternoon and he spent the hours pacing in his study, still unable to settle to anything while his mind raced. He wanted to be out there doing something useful, anything, but there was nothing he could do until Stark returned to the city.

He was out of his study and hurrying to the kitchen as soon as he heard Daisy pull the back door closed behind her.

The kitchen was a mess. Coulson had never seen it looking like that, not even when Mrs Driver was bottling preserves in the autumn. Pans and jars littered every surface and there was a noxious smell in the air, a mixture of sulphur and something else that made Coulson cough and gag for a moment. Clint had stripped out of his good white shirt and put on one of his old, tattered grey ones. The cuffs were frayed and there were tiny holes dotted in the fabric that Coulson thought looked new. Even more strangely, he was wearing leather gloves and he'd tied a grubby rag over his mouth.

Clint looked up from stirring something in a ceramic bowl when Coulson coughed and the skin around his eyes crinkled as though he was smiling.

"What on earth are you doing?" Coulson asked.

"When I was in the circus I used to make trick arrows." Clint's voice sounded slightly hoarse, as though he'd been coughing. "Flashbangs, sparklers, that kind of thing. Figured we might want some firepower against automatons so I'm building some new tricks."

"What kind of tricks?"

Clint nodded to his chair in the corner, where a small stack of unfletched arrows had been carefully propped against the arm. Their tips looked oddly bulbous and shiny. When Coulson peered closer, he realised they had small glass ampoules in place of arrow heads.

"Acid arrows," Clint said. "This shit'll eat through anything. Even iron. I'm thinking about some exploding ones as well. If Stark could make his automaton-go-to-sleep device smaller, maybe I could even design a few arrows for that."

"You're making acid and explosives in our kitchen," Coulson said slowly.

"I could have used the front parlour, but the furniture in there looked expensive. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. This is just like the stuff I made for my shows, just a bit less showy and a bit more lethal."

"I'm not finding that comforting." Coulson frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Where did you get the ingredients?"

"You had most of them already. It's amazing what you can cook up with a few things from the medicine cabinet and some stuff out of the pantry. The rest I...uh..." Clint winced. "So, those pyjamas you wanted me to buy? I kind of spent the money."

The exaggerated innocence in Clint's eyes above his ragged face mask made Coulson laugh even though he was probably supposed to act the stern and implacable employer over something like that.

"You hate pyjamas that much?" he asked.

"No. But I like yours better. And I'm not used to sleeping all bundled up in layers."

Coulson sighed. "Just make sure you buy some before we have to attend any more house parties."

"Sure thing, boss." Clint stopped stirring and peered at the contents of his bowl. "This is going to take a while. Why don't you eat at your club tonight? I'll have all this cleared away by the time you get home."

"Is that an order?"

"A suggestion. You're still the boss, technically. I can't order you around."

"That never seems to stop you," Coulson grumbled.

"Go to your club, sir." Clint said. "Do whatever it is you do at your club and let me finish this up in peace so I don't accidentally blow up your house. Please?"

Despite the mess and fumes, it looked like Clint knew what was doing and Coulson decided there wasn't much chance of Clint destroying anything more than the odd wooden spoon. He was a little surprised at how easily he'd grown to trust Clint but there was something reassuring about his steady hands and the amused expression in his blue eyes.

"Fine," Coulson said after a beat, just to make sure Clint knew he wasn't giving in easily. "But only because you asked nicely."

"Just wait until I'm not up to my elbows in acid," Clint said. "I can ask really nicely then."

The cheerfully lascivious wink Clint sent him made heat rise in Coulson's face and he escaped with Clint's throaty laughter following him down from the kitchen.

***

The member's dining room in Chester's was busier than normal even for an evening in the middle of the Season but thankfully his usual table in the corner was free. Coulson nodded hello to a few members as he wove between the tables but nobody stopped him. There were a few faces that he only vaguely recognised and he wondered whether they were members who didn't usually appear in town or if they were guests.

Evans appeared as soon as Coulson was seated and the waiter almost looked like he was going to smile for a moment, but he checked it and settled into his usual expression of solemn disinterest.

"Good evening, sir," Evans said. "May I bring you a drink?"

Coulson swallowed down a smile at the predictability and asked for whiskey. "What is the kitchen serving tonight?"

"There's a lamb curry, sir, that's quite popular today and we also have a roast of beef," Evans said. "The beef is less popular."

He said it with a tone that indicated he disapproved of the popularity of curry in a fine English gentlemen's club but the spicy smell from a nearby table was already making Coulson's mouth water.

"I'll have the curry," he said.

Evans' lips turned down even further. "A fine choice, sir. Will Inspector Fury be joining you tonight?"

"I'm not sure." Coulson noticed movement by the door. "Actually, yes he will. He's just arrived."

"I suppose he'll want the curry as well," Evans observed.

"Probably," Coulson agreed, "but you should ask. It's busy here tonight."

"There is a special exhibition in Crystal Palace," Evans said. "A great display of the new technology that will make our lives carefree and filled with leisure. It opens on Wednesday."

Disapproval radiated from him and Coulson could understand: some of that technology was designed to replace people like Evans. There had been questions in Parliament last week about the rising levels of unemployed men and women due to the sophisticated manufacturing machines that were replacing them. It wouldn't be long before those in domestic service went the same way if automatons became even more widespread.

The thought sent a shiver down Coulson's spine. Automatons in every walk of life, metal creatures that could go out of control at any moment: he needed to find out the truth before it was too late.

He shook himself out of his dark thoughts and offered Evans a reassuring smile. "All that new technology is very exciting, but nothing will ever replace the human touch in places like this."

Evans sighed unhappily. "I'm sure you're correct, sir."

Despite his words, his tone didn't sound in any way reassured and he stalked away with a rigid set to his shoulders. Coulson watched him confer briefly with Fury before leaving the dining room. There was an amused smile on Fury's face when he approached the table and sat down.

"What's wrong with Evans tonight?" Fury asked.

"The exhibition in the Crystal Palace. He's convinced that all the staff are going to be fired and replaced with automatons."

"Mm, well he might not be too far wrong there," Fury said. "We've got a dozen more of the things arriving in the Yard next week. The latest models. I'm supposed to trust one to handle my team's paperwork. All of it, including writing up all our case notes. They're turning into an infestation."

"I noticed Paddington has embraced them," Coulson said.

Fury smiled sourly. "That's just the start. Word is, the new Prime Minister loves them. Asquith wants them installed in Downing Street and half the departments in Whitehall. Hammer Industries is rushing to finish building them because he's ordered so many."

"That's...worrying," Coulson said cautiously.

"Damn right it's worrying," Fury said. "I don't trust them. You can't look into their eyes, there's nothing there. Machines can't replace humans no matter what the scientists say."

"Your scientists were right about releasing the man you arrested for the river murders."

The unhappy lines in Fury's forehead deepened at the reminder. Coulson didn't usually try to provoke him, but in the mood Fury was in at the moment there was no telling what titbits he'd let slip and every scrap of information might be valuable.

"Their analytical engines sorted through data we would have put together anyway. The man knew things about the bodies that we haven't released to the press yet, but his explanation for that was corroborated eventually," Fury admitted irritably. "They haven't been a damn bit of use since. They can't even agree on whether we've got one murderer or half a dozen anymore. Too many variables."

The conversation paused while waiters placed plates of curry and glasses of beer in front of them. A basket of fragrant flat bread and a jar of spicy chutney completed the meal and Coulson inhaled the scents with a pleased sigh. On reflection, maybe getting shooed out of his own house hadn't worked out badly after all.

The food was good and for a while they both focused on savouring it rather than talking. Coulson was mopping up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread when Fury eventually looked up.

"I've been doing a bit of poking around," he said. "Looking into your mystery when I have a few minutes to spare. The whole thing stinks."

Coulson almost choked on his bread and he was fairly sure his expression wasn't as neutral as he was trying for. "Really?"

"Really. Nobody filed a single report," Fury said. "There's nothing. I can't even trace the constables you saw. It's like nothing happened."

"Maybe I was mistaken. We've heard the family is returning to close up the house and leave town for good soon."

Fury rolled his eye. "I don't think so. You're one of the most intelligent men I know. Something about the whole thing stinks worse than a fish market and if I had any men to spare, I'd be putting them all on this. As I don't, the best I can do is to ask my sergeants to keep an ear out for anything similar. Nobody tells me a damn thing but everyone likes Rogers and Barnes so they'll hear it if there's any news."

"Thank you," Coulson said, giving Fury a small smile. "I appreciate that."

"It's not like you to ask me for help very often," Fury said. "And this one has me intrigued."

Coulson schooled his face into an appropriate mix of gratitude and concern, trying not to look too hopeful. Fury didn't often mention the men under his command, but he'd occasionally commented on Rogers and Barnes and everything Coulson had heard was good.

"Speaking of intriguing," Fury said, "how was your weekend in Oxfordshire?"

The amused glint in Fury's eyes made Coulson's heart sink slightly. "Uneventful."

"Really? I've always heard Lady Carter's parties are fascinating." Fury grinned. "As is Lady Carter."

The warning glare Coulson gave him didn't quash Fury's grin. If anything, he looked even more amused.

Coulson sighed and resigned himself to enduring an evening of Fury teasing him about his friendship with Lady Carter. It wasn't a new amusement for Fury, but somehow it seemed even more irritating than it had been before Coulson had a very attractive valet to go home to.

***

The house in Walden Square was quiet when Coulson finally got home. Lamps had been left on in the hall and over the staircase, but they were the only illumination. Even the kitchen was dark, for once, and there was no sign of Barton. All the beakers, bowls and pots had been cleared away and the kitchen smelled clean and fresh.

Disappointment sliced through Coulson. He'd been hoping to find Clint in his usual chair in the corner, perhaps slumped in a light doze so Coulson could nudge him awake and see the sleepy smile that made his heart skip a beat. All evening, he'd been trying not to build up any expectations but there had been a look in Clint's eyes that had seemed to promise something. A few kisses and some pretty words didn't have to mean anything and Coulson wasn't foolish enough to think there were any guarantees between them.

He couldn't seem to stop himself hoping, though.

That thought was still at the front of his mind as Coulson hung up his coat and hat and walked slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. It was late and he told himself firmly that it was completely inappropriate to go to Clint's door. He was Clint's employer, he paid Clint's wages and board, and he didn't want Clint to feel obligated into anything more. Everything they did together had to be Clint's choice.

The lamp in the corner of Coulson's bedroom sent a soft glow through the room and he stopped in the doorway as all the air suddenly rushed out of his lungs. There was no need to debate the ethics of calling on Clint in his bedroom: Clint was lying stretched out on his bed, sleeping soundly, with the covers pushed to one side.

He looked like he'd flung himself down to sprawl on the bed and then fallen asleep before he could move. Clint had thrown one arm above his head to rest carelessly on the pillow and one knee had been drawn up and then allowed to fall open as he slept. He was still wearing the disreputable work shirt, but it was unbuttoned and had fallen open to reveal an expanse of muscular chest. Coulson's eyes were drawn to the thin line of hair that started just below Clint's bellybutton and trailed down below the waistband of his trousers, which were riding low and revealing just a hint of the dimple over his hip. The thought of tasting the skin in that dimple and tracing the line of hair with his lips made Coulson's breath catch in his throat.

He swallowed and pulled his gaze away, only to be distracted by Clint's bare feet and what they implied about Clint presence here. It seemed incredibly important, somehow, for Clint to feel secure enough about his place in Coulson's life to fall asleep like this, half dressed and touchingly trusting.

Coulson realised he was smiling fondly and he couldn't restrain it. There was a tight bubble of happiness in his chest that was making the world feel like a much better place than it usually did. Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped into the room and sat down on the chair in the corner to pull off his boots. The sound of one of his boots hitting the floor less gracefully than he'd planned was enough to pull Clint out of his doze with a soft groan. Coulson stood up so he could see the sleepy smile he couldn't get enough of and was rewarded when Clint blinked and immediately looked for him.

Lazy warmth filled Clint's eyes and he propped himself up on an elbow, not noticing that the movement made his shirt slip off one shoulder. "Sorry, sir, I fell asleep."

"Never apologise for that," Coulson said as he loosened his tie. "I've been telling you not to wait up for me for months."

"I didn't think you'd mind me waiting up this time," Clint said. "That is...is this alright? Me being here?"

Coulson shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over a chair with his tie draped over it. "It's not just alright, it's perfect. If you weren't here, I'd be debating whether or not I should knock on your door and probably deciding it was inappropriate and presumptuous and not doing it."

Clint frowned. "Just for future reference, sir, you're welcome to knock on my door any time you want to. I won't think you're presuming anything because you're always welcome."

"You probably shouldn't call me sir when you're in bed, then," Coulson said. "Just so we can keep all of this straight in our heads."

"What if I accidentally call you Phil when you've got company?"

"Is that likely to happen?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "I've never been to bed with my employer before."

"As I've never had a relationship with one of my employees before, this is new territory for both of us."

The crooked smile Clint gave him made Coulson's heart rate pick up and the buttons on his shirt seemed suddenly much smaller and impossible to manipulate. He pulled at one of them and it pinged off across the room. Clint laughed and held out a hand.

"Come over here," Clint said, sitting up. "Before I have to spend all day tomorrow sewing the buttons back on."

Coulson rolled his eyes but complied, moving across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He let Clint bat his hands away to begin carefully working the buttons free before he raised one hand and then the other so Clint could unfasten the cufflinks without removing them from his cuffs. Clint leaned forward to push the shirt off Coulson's shoulders and it was too easy for Coulson to duck his head and place a kiss just below Clint's jaw.

There was a hint of lemon and soap on Clint's skin and Coulson took a deep breath, letting it fill his senses. He'd expected Clint to smell like the sour metallic chemicals he'd been working with earlier and the contrast was a pleasant surprise.

"You smell good," he said, against Clint's skin. "Did you take a bath?"

Clint chuckled as he pulled the shirt free and dropped it on the floor. "Fuck yes. I figured you wouldn't want to taste some of the stuff I'd been working with and sex usually includes some lip to skin contact. Unless you're one of those men who just gets straight down to business without any build-up? Please tell me you're not one of those men. That could be a deal breaker for me."

Instead of saying anything, Coulson decided a practical demonstration of how very much he _wasn't_ one of those men was required so he kissed Clint, slowly and thoroughly. He felt Clint smile against his lips and a puff of air warmed his cheek as Clint chuckled. Slipping his hands under Clint's shirt so he could flatten them against warm skin and pull Clint closer seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Clint sighed into the kiss and parted his lips. His mouth tasted of mint and something undefinable that Coulson remembered from their last kisses, something that was uniquely Clint and he couldn't get enough of it.

Hands tugged at his undershirt, pulling it free from his trousers, and then there were warm, calloused fingers stroking lightly up his spine and around his ribs.

Coulson didn't even realise that he'd groaned, low and needy, until Clint slowly pulled back and said, "Definitely not one of those men."

It took Coulson a moment to process what Clint meant and then he smiled. "Definitely not."

"I approve, by the way. In case that wasn't completely clear."

"I wasn't sure. You're so difficult to read."

There was a pink flush in Clint's face and his pupils had already blown wide with want, so it was a complete lie and they both knew it. Coulson wondered what Clint was reading in his own face and then he decided he probably didn't want to know. It would only make him feel self-conscious.

Instead he kissed Clint's jaw and nosed under the collar of his shirt, pushing it aside to finally fall from his shoulders completely so he could taste the skin at the base of Clint's throat. Coulson felt Clint quiver and sigh and he tried a sucking kiss, just enough to leave a pink mark, which made Clint moan. He lingered there for a while, alternating teeth and tongue and learning how to make Clint shudder and mutter filthy things at him.

Eventually Clint pulled impatiently at his undershirt and Coulson obligingly sat back so Clint could strip it off him and throw it aside. Clint's much-abused shirt joined it on the floor as well and they tumbled onto the bed for another long kiss, groaning into each other's mouths at the feel of skin against skin. The sensation of Clint's nails scratching lightly at his back sent heat coursing through Coulson's body and he had to bury his face in Clint's shoulder for a moment to catch his breath.

Except the skin under his lips was too tempting and instead of catching his breath he started kissing a line along Clint's shoulder and then down his chest, sometimes tasting the skin or letting his teeth graze just because it made Clint writhe and swear.

"Really definitely not one of those men," Clint mumbled before cursing loudly again as Coulson kissed and licked his nipple.

The reaction was so good Coulson stayed there for a while, teasing at the sensitive nub until Clint's hips were shifting restlessly on the bed. There was a part of Coulson that just wanted to rut wildly against Clint until they both came, but a much louder part wanted to take his time and learn every inch of Clint's body. The way Clint reacted to each new caress and kiss was intoxicating and Coulson didn't want this to end yet even though he was aching with need already.

Clint's hands were in his hair now, scratching gently at his scalp as both encouragement and reward for what he was doing. As Coulson kissed his way further down Clint's body, he moved so that he was kneeling over Clint's thigh. He kissed the skin over Clint's stomach wetly and then blew a raspberry on it just to feel Clint laughing.

"Phil," Clint said breathlessly.

Hearing his name out loud made heat rush through Coulson and he rested his forehead against Clint's belly for a moment, struggling to breathe. He felt Clint pat his head gently and hoped Clint didn't think he wasn't up to this.

"I'm starting to think you might actually be trying to kill me," Clint said conversationally.

Coulson nipped a light bite on the skin just above his bellybutton in retaliation and then, finally, let himself do what he'd been fantasising about since he'd walked into the room. He followed the trail of hair down Clint's belly with his lips and then kissed along the waistband of Clint's trousers until he could dip his tongue in that dimple just over his hip.

Clint shuddered and cursed and Coulson grinned as he kissed and licked that spot again.

"Keep doing that and this is going to end much too soon," Clint warned.

"Do you always talk this much?" Coulson asked, lifting his head.

There was a sheen of sweat on Clint's face now and a surge of something primal and hot went through Coulson at the thought that he'd caused this, he had pushed Clint so close to the edge.

Clint grinned at him. "Is it a problem if I do?"

"No, it's just not something I’m used to."

"I guess you're the quiet type during sex," Clint said. "No unnecessary noise, no positive reinforcement that I'm getting things right, just total silence even when you're coming."

Coulson considered the question while he unfastened Clint's trousers. "That's probably an accurate assessment."

"Well, shit, that just makes you a challenge." Clint's grin was wicked. "Maybe not today, but some day I'm going to make you scream."

"Is that a threat?"

Clint lifted his hips at Coulson's urging and said, "A promise."

Keeping his voice and expression mild and passive was difficult when he was finally drawing away the last of Clint's clothes, but Coulson did his best and said, "I look forward to your attempts."

"You're saying that and looking at me like that and..." Clint waved a hand vaguely. "You're definitely trying to kill me."

Coulson couldn't respond, he was too busy feasting on the sight of Clint sprawled naked on his bed. There was so much skin and twitching muscle, he couldn't resist stroking a hand up Clint's leg just to feel it and reassure himself that this was really happening. An imperfection in the skin on Clint's thigh caught his attention and Coulson leaned closer to look at it, to smooth a thumb over the puckered circle of flesh.

"Is this a bullet wound?" he asked. "That thigh wound you mentioned treating, it was your own?"

Clint's voice sounded oddly strangled. "Now is when you want to discuss this? It was a long time ago and you'll need to get me really drunk to tell the story."

"It caught my eye."

"Could you let something about six inches higher catch your eye?"

Humming quietly, Coulson ducked his head to kiss the scarred skin and then moved higher to taste the crease where Clint's leg met his body and inhale the musky scent. Clint said something obscene and grabbed for him, pulling him up for a dirty, messy kiss that stole Coulson's breath completely. He barely even noticed Clint's clever fingers working at his belt and the fastening of his trousers until a warm, calloused hand pushed down inside to squeeze his ass.

"Are you done being distracted?" Clint said roughly.

"You're very distracting," Coulson said.

"Fuck you, distractions are overrated."

Coulson was fairly sure Clint had lost track of what he was saying now, but he smiled against his cheek and said, dryly, "I'm trying to make the fucking happen and you keep talking."

The sound Clint made at that was almost a growl and Coulson suddenly found himself flipped on his back while Clint stripped him so fast his toes tingled from the friction of fabric over them. Then Clint's heavy weight was on him and he hissed softly at the feel of Clint's skin against his from chest to knee.

He hadn't let himself picture this part too clearly, not even recently, but somehow he hadn't pictured Clint taking charge quite so completely. Looking up at Clint, letting Clint nudge him into position so Clint was cradled between his legs, was unexpectedly arousing and Coulson gasped the first time Clint rocked their hips together so their hard lengths met. The friction was exactly what he'd needed and Clint's loud groan made him want more of it.

More heat, more sensation, more of Clint's amazing responses.

Coulson wrapped a leg around Clint's thigh and thrust up against him, feeling the shudder in the body above him. He lifted his head to meet Clint's hard, insistent kiss and clutched at Clint's back in an attempt to pull him closer. The kiss turned sloppy and uncoordinated when they found a rhythm, pushing and rocking against each other in the perfect blend of friction and heat.

This was an intensity Coulson hadn't felt before, a need so strong he thought he could get lost in it. Then even the attempt at a kiss ended and Clint raised his head so their eyes could meet. Coulson couldn't look away, caught by depth of what he could read in Clint's gaze. It might almost have been frightening to see if he hadn't been certain his own eyes were betraying the same thing.

Time slowed for a moment and Coulson tried to memorise it, to capture the expression in Clint's face and the feel of Clint all around him. The weight of Clint's body on his and the solid flesh under his hands. The sounds Clint was making with every slide of flesh against flesh.

He wanted to say something but the words caught in his throat and tangled on his tongue and then the moment was over and time was running normally again.

Clint came with a long groan that rumbled against Coulson's chest. The splash of wet heat against his belly and the feel of Clint shaking and gasping was all Coulson needed to join him in a climax that made him see stars.

Sometime later Clint sighed, his warm breath huffing over Coulson's neck and sending tiny shivers through his body even though he was too spent to do anything more.

"You're not completely silent after all," Clint said sleepily. "There was definitely a grunt there, I heard it."

Coulson scratched lightly at the bare skin on Clint's back and was rewarded with a sound almost like a contented purr. "You must be imagining things."

"I don't think I am," Clint said.

"I don't know how you heard anything with all the noise you were making."

"I'm very observant."

"And also very annoying when you're smug."

"So you're admitting I have something to be smug about?"

Coulson snorted. "Did I say that?"

"You definitely implied it." Clint lifted his head and there was an unmistakeably pleased grin on his lips. "You made a noise. That's something to build on."

"Are you always this obnoxious after sex?" Coulson asked.

"Fuck me next time and you can find out," Clint said.

Coulson tried very hard not to be affected by that mental image and failed. Clint's grin widened before he yawned sleepily.

"I'm going to pass out now, if that's alright?" Clint said.

He planted a sloppy kiss on the corner of Coulson's mouth and was asleep before Coulson could do anything to respond. They were still sweaty and sticky and Coulson knew he'd regret this later, but a nap sounded like an excellent idea. Coulson tugged the rumpled covers up over their bodies and followed him into sleep.

***

Coulson woke up suddenly, dragged out of his deliciously relaxed doze by the urgent sense that something was wrong.

Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat and Coulson stiffened, all his muscles tensing to fight even as his brain registered the lethal wickedness of the blade against his skin.

"Don't move," a low, feminine voice said, "or I'll stop being gentle."


	9. Chapter 9

_London, May 19th, 1908_

Coulson hardly dared to breathe. The bedroom was too dark to see who was holding the knife against his throat, only that she was a small black shape leaning over him. The feel of sharp metal against his throat sent a chill down his spine to curdle in his belly and that sick feeling made him angry. If he hadn't been so tangled up in Clint's arms and legs, he might have considered trying to fight back but Clint had spooned up behind him again while they slept and wrapped around him like an octopus. The woman holding the knife would have more than enough time to slit his throat while he struggled to extricate himself from Clint's arms, which made fighting a pointless exercise.

Fear and anger fought for dominance and made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth for a moment before he managed to clear his throat to speak.

"Who are you?" Coulson asked.

"A friend," she said.

"Friends don't usually creep into bedrooms and threaten each other with knives."

"I'm out of practise at friends."

They'd been speaking quietly but the sound must have interrupted Clint's dreams. Either that or he sensed the tension in Coulson's body, which seemed highly likely given how thoroughly he was wrapped around Coulson. He stirred, his arm tightening around Coulson's waist for a moment, and lifted his head.

"Natasha?" he asked groggily.

Coulson couldn't see Clint but he could imagine the sleepily confused expression. The pressure of the knife against his throat lessened for a moment before the woman - Natasha - pressed it tight again. Coulson winced.

"Hello Clint," Natasha said.

"Tasha, why are you threatening my...uh, Phil?"

"I'm making sure there aren't any miscommunications. Are you alright? He's not making you do anything you don't want?"

"Why would you even ask that?"

The knife shifted slightly against Coulson's skin and he felt a sharp sting.

"He's your employer," Natasha said, "and you make very bad choices sometimes."

"I promise, everything's fine," Clint said, all the sleepiness gone from his voice. "He's a good man. Nobody's forcing anyone to do anything here. You can stop threatening him now."

"Can you guarantee he's not armed?"

There was a quiet chuckle that vibrated against Coulson's back. "Yes, I can guarantee he's not armed."

"And he won't try to attack me?"

"I won't try to attack you," Coulson said. "You have my word."

After a thoughtful pause, the knife was slowly withdrawn and the dark shape moved away. Coulson reached out and turned on a lamp. The sudden light made his eyes water for a moment and he had to blink until his vision cleared.

Natasha was still holding her knife and she stood with her feet planted shoulder-width apart and her knees slightly bent as though she still expected Coulson to leap up and tackle her. The dangerous glint in her eyes and the easy, competent way she handled her knife were more than enough to persuade Coulson that attacking her would be a bad idea. Her dark red hair had been tied back in a tight bun and the black, tight clothes she wore would have scandalised even the most radical suffragettes

Coulson couldn't help admiring her slightly even though she was terrifying.

He also felt incredibly vulnerable and it wasn't just because he was naked in his bed with a woman eyeing him like he was something she had scraped off her shoe. There was also Clint and although he seemed to know Natasha, the fact remained that they were naked in a bed together and there weren't many ways to interpret this without drawing the correct conclusion.

Under the covers, Clint grabbed Coulson's hand and squeezed for a moment before releasing him and carefully sitting up. Coulson tried to feel reassured by the gesture as he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. The corner of Natasha's mouth twitched.

"What are you doing here?" Clint asked.

"Would you believe me if I said that I worry about you?" Natasha said.

"No."

Natasha shrugged gracefully. "I'm under contract. You're a complication."

"What kind of contract?"

Coulson swallowed hard. It wasn't hard to work out what kind of contract she might be under that brought him to his bedroom in the middle of the night with a knife.

A small, sharp smile curved Natasha's lips. "Not that kind, don't worry. I'm supposed to be setting a trap so certain...interested parties can arrest him."

"Tasha-"

"I'm breaking my contract," she said, cutting Clint off. "If I take him down then I take you down. You know I can't do that."

Coulson couldn't interpret the look Natasha and Clint exchanged but some of the tension in the room subsided and he felt the quiet sigh of relief Clint let out.

"Hill," Coulson said quietly.

Natasha nodded. "I was hired to set a trap. I don't like working blind and she doesn't know who you are. Only that she wants you. So I did some detective work of my own and here we are." Her small smile turned sly. "I didn't expect to find this, though."

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and made an unhappy sound. "Shit, Tasha."

"You've done some really stupid things over the years," Natasha said, "but fucking your employer? This makes Prague look sensible."

"What happened in Prague?" Coulson asked.

"Nothing." Clint glared at Natasha. "Nothing happened in Prague."

Natasha snickered and Coulson was surprised to see a hint of pinkness flooding Clint's face. It almost looked like he was embarrassed, which seemed odd after everything else Coulson had seen Clint do with no sign of shame. Maybe Prague was the source of the scar high on Clint's thigh, Coulson mused to himself before remembering exactly why he knew about that scar.

Coulson was suddenly uncomfortably aware again that he was naked under the covers and he felt the tips of his ears heat.

"Maybe we could finish this reunion somewhere else now that we've established she's not planning to kill us tonight," he said. "Somewhere like the kitchen."

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Natasha asked.

"Yes."

She seemed to consider the proposal carefully for a moment before inclining her head slightly and finally putting the knife away. "We'll talk in your kitchen, then."

Coulson waited but she didn't show any sign of turning away. Instead she watched them with an amused, possibly slightly speculative, expression.

Clint wasn't as amused. "Do you mind waiting for us downstairs?"

"You've never been shy before," Natasha said.

They seemed to have a silent battle of wills before she flashed them both a sharp smile and left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. Coulson sat up and let the covers fall down around his waist, feeling the cool air chill his skin.

After a long moment Clint leaned over to press a kiss against Coulson's bare shoulder and then rest his chin there. He stayed like that for a moment and Coulson reached up to card his fingers through Clint's messy hair.

"Sorry about this, boss," Clint said softly, pressing another apologetic kiss onto Coulson's shoulder before straightening up.

"Why? It's not your fault. She tracked me, she wasn't here for you."

Clint shrugged awkwardly and didn't say anything.

"Do you trust her?" Coulson asked.

He turned slightly so he could look into Clint's eyes and rest his hand on the back of Clint's neck. The short hair at the base of Clint's hairline prickled Coulson's fingers as he rubbed the skin soothingly.

"I trust her with my life," Clint said. "I'd trust her with yours."

"That's all I need to know about her," Coulson said and he was surprised to find it was the truth.

Clint trusted this woman so he trusted her.

The slow, lingering kiss Clint gave him made Coulson intensely regret that there was someone waiting downstairs for them.

***

Coulson curled his hands around a mug of steaming, fragrant tea and watched Natasha warily. She'd used the time while she waited for Coulson and Clint - distracted for longer than planned - to warm the range and make a pot of tea. It was difficult to tell whether she was simply a very confident young woman or if the task was a way of coping with unexpected stress.

Clint sat beside Coulson with his own cup of tea and his bare foot rubbed comfortingly against Coulson's ankle. He'd pulled on his tattered work shirt and stained trousers, explaining that Natasha had seen him in worse. It should have been distracting to feel Clint's foot against his ankle, but instead Coulson found it oddly soothing. He'd dressed in pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers rather than trying to smooth out the wrinkles on the shirt and trousers he'd been wearing earlier.

Natasha sat opposite them and eyed them over the rim of her mug as she sipped some tea. Her expression was unreadable but Coulson didn't think it was unfriendly.

"How do you know each other?" he asked when it seemed nobody was going to start the conversation.

They exchanged a look and Natasha inclined her head, a silent cue for Clint to tell the story.

"Tasha almost got me kicked out of the circus," Clint said.

He jumped and swore and Coulson guessed she'd kicked him under the table.

"You did," Clint said. "If you hadn't pretended to be a whore I'd picked up in Barcelona, Carson would have thrown us both out in a heartbeat. Pretty sure he wouldn't have been happy about smuggling an assassin out of Spain."

"Smuggling?" Coulson asked.

"Clint's got a good heart," Natasha said. "Sometimes he's too good. He always thinks he can save everyone, even someone like me. I've got a specific skill set and there was a time when I didn't care who paid me to use them."

"Something went wrong with a contract," Clint said. "I found her hiding under my wagon, stabbed in three places and half-dead from blood loss."

"He took me in, patched me up, and got me out of the country."

"I couldn't just let you die."

"Yes, you could. Most people would. "

Coulson studied them both carefully. They weren't telling him everything, but he could read between the lines and see the looks they were exchanging. Clint's actions had made Natasha rethink the things she was doing. She hadn't stopped using her skills, but she'd become more discerning about how she used them and who she used them for. He wanted to pry deeper, find out exactly what Clint had said or done to make her change, but he sensed this wasn't the time.

"How long ago was that?" he asked.

"A long time," Natasha said.

She didn't even look to be thirty yet but her eyes were old and Coulson tried not to imagine exactly how young she'd been when she started learning her 'specific skills'.

"We find each other every couple of years," Clint said. "Tasha travels a lot. Sometimes we end up in the same place, sometimes she tracks me down when she needs somewhere to rest for a while."

"I lost track of you months ago," Natasha said. "Carson told me you'd left the circus."

"In a way. I got sick. The circus left me behind."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "You seem to have landed well."

"My aunt got me the job," Clint said, the tips of his ears turning pink. "It's working out well."

"So I saw."

"Tasha..."

Coulson cleared his throat and they both looked at him with matching embarrassed looks. It was almost creepy.

"Miss...ah...?"

"Romanov," Natasha said. "Natasha Romanov. Natasha is fine."

"Natasha," Coulson said with a nod. "If you're not going to honour your contract on me anymore, what are you planning?"

"I haven't decided yet," Natasha said calmly. "It's not your concern, though. It's mine. I'll make sure Hill stops looking for you. I'm more interested in the automatons you're investigating."

Coulson stared at her and he felt Clint tense beside him. Natasha calmly sipped her tea and watched them.

"How did you know about the automatons?" Clint asked.

There was a small, triumphant smile on Natasha's lips when she lowered her mug and Coulson silently raised his estimation of her intellect. She'd played a guess and they'd both fallen for it, confirming something that had only been a theory before.

"I'm very good at what I do," Natasha said.

Coulson nodded thoughtfully. "Miss Romanov. Natasha. Why are you interested in our investigation into the automatons?"

"They're dangerous," Natasha said. "A month ago, I watched one dismember a young woman. It was very messy and I don't like mess. The men who investigated it seemed unusually incurious about the entire household, including the new housemaid who had arrived a few days before."

"That was you?" Coulson asked.

"It was. I was there for another member of the family - information only, Clint, don't worry - so I reported everything to my employer when I eventually managed to get away from the men who claimed to be police. He wasn't pleased and we ended my contract on unhappy terms."

"How unhappy?" Clint asked warily.

"He paid me half what he owed me, but he's still alive."

"You said you got away," Coulson said. "Where were you being taken?"

"I don't know. The servants were separated from the family, probably because no one would notice their disappearance whereas the family of a wealthy banker can't just disappear," Natasha said. "We were put in a carriage - horse-drawn - and we were a few miles south of London when I finally escaped. I made sure the other servants were safe and then I left. The men who had been holding us may possibly reappear one day, if the river I put them in ever gets dredged."

Coulson made a mental note never to get Natasha angry at him. He suspected she was one of the most dangerous people he would ever meet, possibly as dangerous as Fury.

"Would you be interested in finding out what's behind all this?" Coulson asked.

"No contract," Clint said. "This would be one of those times when you do something just because it's the right thing to do."

For a long moment, Natasha stared down into her mug. She was too well-trained to let her thoughts show on her face but Coulson knew her mind was racing. His would be in her position.

He startled slightly when Clint squeezed his leg under the table. Clint's reassuring smile and the warm weight of Clint's hand soothed some of his tension away. He covered Clint's hand with his own and they stayed that way while Natasha considered the offer.

"I'm interested," she said finally. "I'm very interested. Where do we start?"

***

A card from Tony Stark arrived with the first morning post, inviting Coulson to present himself with his valet at the earliest possible opportunity. A postscript had been added to emphasise 'earliest' and Coulson exchanged a wry grin with Clint. There had been little point in going back to bed after Natasha left at dawn so they'd stayed up talking in the kitchen and Daisy had looked like she might faint when she arrived and found them there.

Daisy's expression when they both left immediately after breakfast was wide-eyed and curious, but Coulson found he didn't care. Whatever gossip she took home couldn't possibly be anywhere close to the truth and he had more important things to worry about right now.

Stark's house in Pall Mall was beautifully appointed and Coulson detected Pepper's hand in the new furnishings. A butler greeted them at the door and sniffed unhappily at Clint, despite his sober valet's clothing, but he led them to a room at the back of the house that might once have been the library without complaint.

The room obviously hadn't been a library for a long time, but some of the shelves were still in place and stacked with boxes labelled in an untidy scrawl. Scarred workbenches were littered with tools and scraps of metal. Coulson thought he recognised the metal shells from a couple of devices he'd seen in Mrs Driver's catalogues, but they had been gutted and discarded.

Stark was bending over a workbench, peering through a magnifying glass attached to a band around his head so he could carefully manipulate the innards of something that made tiny peeping noises when he prodded it. His hair stood up wildly and his clothes made Clint's tattered shirt look almost respectable. He'd stripped down to his undershirt and trousers and streaks of oil and grease liberally coated the fabric and his skin.

He looked up when the butler cleared his throat and grinned. "Coulson! Barton! You came. Thank you, Jarvis, that will be everything for now."

"There may be a young woman calling on us," Coulson said as Jarvis turned away.

Jarvis nodded impassively and left.

"A young woman?" Stark smirked. "What have you been up to while I was away?"

"She's an old friend of Barton's," Coulson said firmly.

He briefly outlined Natasha's involvement - carefully staying vague about exactly where she'd found them - and watched Stark's expression slowly change from mocking to interested. A bell had sounded somewhere in the house while he spoke and there was a knock at the workshop door as he finished. The door opened and Jarvis ushered in a woman dressed in black with a heavy veil over her face and, to Coulson's surprise, Doctor Banner.

The woman raised her veil as soon as Jarvis left.

"I didn't think it would be a good idea to be seen arriving here," she said, "in case you need me to be someone else later."

"Miss Romanov, I assume?" Stark asked.

Natasha nodded. "Mr Stark. Doctor Banner."

"You know me?" Doctor Banner asked, looking surprised.

"I saw you speak at the Royal Society a couple of years ago," Natasha said.

Doctor Banner held out a hand and she shook it firmly. Coulson heard a choked snort of laughter from Clint's direction and decided not to ask what that was about: he suspected he didn't want to know.

"So we're all friends, that's good," Stark said, pulling off his magnifying glass and dropping it on the table. "I assume you know why we're here, Miss Romanov?"

"Automatons," Natasha said.

"I'm still not sure why I'm here," Doctor Banner said. "I don't own one and they're not really my field. I'm not an engineer."

Stark grinned. "Radiation. Radio waves. You're _the_ expert on all that stuff. We need to track down the control centre the automatons are reporting to and we need someone who can work out the frequency they're operating on and track it. That's you, big guy."

"I don't have any of my equipment," Doctor Banner protested. "It's all back in my lab and I can't get any of you in there without a lot of explanations." He glanced at Coulson. "I'm based in Scotland Yard. I work on the analytical engine there, among other things."

"You can use this place," Stark said.

Doctor Banner sighed. "Tony, this is a workshop. It's the place you build toasting machines and new analytical engines in, not detect radio waves. You don't have any of the equipment I'd need. We'd have to either buy it or build it and that could take weeks."

"We don't have weeks," Coulson said.

Three pairs of eyes turned to him curiously. Clint didn't look up from where he was examining the nearest workbench, but Coulson caught a hint of a smile that almost looked proud.

"In a few days, there will be automatons in Downing Street and several large government offices," Coulson said. "All their other orders have been put on hold so Hammer Industries can get them into service as fast as possible. Can you imagine what would happen if one of them turned on the Prime Minister?"

There was a horrified silence for a moment.

"What if none of the incidents are accidents," Natasha said quietly. "The automatons are all capable of taking instructions from somewhere else. What if that's what's been happening all this time? Perhaps it has all been practise for something much bigger. If all the automatons were activated at once and attacked, for example, your Prime Minister and his entire cabinet - what would happen?"

Clint looked up. "It would be chaos. A complete fucking mess. And those things are _everywhere_."

"I might know someone with a lab we can borrow," Stark said. "Fully equipped, she's probably got all the toys you could possibly need and she might even help you with whatever you need to do as well."

"Who?" Doctor Banner asked.

"Doctor Foster."

Doctor Banner frowned thoughtfully. "I've read some of her papers. Our areas overlap; she might have what I need."

"Great," Stark said.

"I'll also need an automaton," Doctor Banner said. "I can't trace the frequency they're using if I don't have one to work from."

"A whole automaton?" Clint asked. "Or will the component inside be enough?"

Doctor Banner blinked. "Just the component, probably."

Clint raised an eyebrow and after a moment's thought, Coulson nodded.

"We can get you one," Clint said. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," Coulson said.

"Then it'll have to be tonight - the owners of the house it's in will be back in town tomorrow." Clint held up a small black device that Coulson recognised from the night in Carter House. "Lend us one of these and we'll have your component for you by tomorrow morning."

Stark stared for a moment before a slow smile crossed his face. "Barton, Coulson, you are so much more than I ever expected. Stealing part of an automaton? Not just poking around, actual theft...I'm in awe."

"The automaton we're thinking of might be dead," Coulson cautioned. "It was marked for return to Hammer Industries and we think that's why it was overlooked when the house was searched. I don't know which parts inside are still any good, if it's even still there."

"Then lend me one of those toys Clint's holding," Natasha said, "and I'll steal you another one. Just in case."

"Why do I suddenly feel like I've fallen in with a gang of thieves and spies?" Stark said.

Natasha's smile was sharp and unapologetic. "Because you have."

***

It was close to midnight when Coulson led the second break-in at 49 Walden Square. Clint laughed softly as Coulson carefully picked the lock on the kitchen door again and he didn't explain why until they were safely inside the house with the door closed.

"The last time we were here," Clint said, laughter still in his voice, "you have no idea how much I wanted you. There you were, picking locks like a professional, and I wanted to peel off your gloves and suck on your fingers until you couldn't think straight anymore. I was so grateful for the masks because I thought you'd see what I was thinking all over my face."

Even though they knew the house was empty they'd still donned masks as they approached the garden wall so Coulson couldn't see Clint's expression. He could hear a hint of something in Clint's voice that he was learning meant Clint was probably eyeing him with a mixture of lust and regret.

"What are you thinking now?" Coulson asked.

It was probably dangerous to flirt like this, even if the house was empty, but Coulson couldn't stop himself. Clint made him want to be less cautious; to flirt and tease and touch in ways he'd always held back from in the past.

"Now?" Clint said in a soft, lazy drawl. "How about I explain in detail when we get home. I'll give you a hands-on demonstration. I really like a man who knows his way around a lock pick."

Coulson swallowed drily. "Hands-on?"

"Your hands on me, my hands on you - whatever works."

The low, wicked laughter and the hand that lightly caressed his wrist, just above his glove, left Coulson in no doubt about Clint's meaning even though the masks and the darkness hid Clint's face. Coulson's breath caught in his throat and he quietly resolved to get the automaton disabled and disassembled as fast as possible.

It was immediately obvious that nobody had been in the house since their last visit. A thin layer of dust lay over everything and the air had the damp, musty feel of a house that hadn't been disturbed for days. Unlike the last time, they knew exactly where they needed to go and Coulson was able to lead them directly to the closet housing the automaton. He cranked his little pocket lamp and set it on the floor where they wouldn't accidentally trip or knock it over. Its thin light wasn't much, but it would be enough for their purposes.

Nothing moved when he opened the cupboard. The automaton was as dead as he remembered.

Clint helped him apply Stark's automaton disabler and wrestle the machine out onto the floor, where they laid it down carefully. Coulson frowned down and placed a hand on its chest. The metal felt cold and dead under his fingers. Even the faint vibration he'd noticed in Lady Carter's automaton was missing and he'd been able to feel that despite the livery it had worn.

"Sir?" Clint asked as Coulson hesitated.

"How good is Natasha?"

"Very good. Why?"

Coulson sighed and sat back on his heels. "We may not be able to retrieve a working component from this one."

Clint placed his hand next to Coulson's on the automaton. "I don't feel anything."

"Exactly."

"Damn. Maybe Stark can do something?"

"We'll have to hope."

Stripping the automaton's livery so they could access the chest plate was difficult: it was frozen into position and its limbs refused to move or bend. In the end, they settled for unfastening the front of the livery and pushing down its trousers, which made opening the chest plate awkward but not impossible.  Even though Coulson had been half-expecting to find the machine dead inside as well as out, it was still a disappointment to be proved right. Nothing moved, not even the tiniest cog or piston. The thing Stark had identified as the potential communicator was cold and dark.

"Fuck," Clint said.

Coulson hummed his agreement with the sentiment and prodded cautiously at the dead mechanism. "Help me pull this thing apart. We have to try."

It was strangely satisfying to yank out gears and oddly shaped bits of metal. Clint produced a set of small tools from a pocket in his heavy black jacket and the work went quickly. They had a small pile of metal parts by the time Coulson carefully detached the component they needed from the wires feeding into it and lifted it out.

"You know, these things look really pretty on the outside," Clint said, "but they're ugly when you look at all the bits inside."

"There's a message there," Coulson said.

"Never look under the surface of the pretty thing?"

Coulson shook his head fondly and pocketed the component. "How do you suggest we put it back together?"

"Stuff all the bits inside and seal it up," Clint said. "Quick and simple. Who's going to care?"

It wasn't as fast as Clint had cheerfully predicted, but it was much faster than taking the automaton apart had been. They threw all the bits they'd taken out back into the chest cavity, sealed it up and pretended they couldn't hear it rattling around metallically as they levered the automaton upright again. The tricky part was getting it back into the cupboard and propped so it wouldn't fall over the next time someone opened the door. Clint batted Coulson's hands away when he tried to straighten the automaton's clothes and they shut the door with a shared sigh of relief.

"Home?" Clint asked.

"Home," Coulson agreed.

"Lock picks again?"

"Unless you want to leave the door open when we leave." Coulson waited a beat before adding, "I could pick the locks on our house as well, if you'd like."

Clint made an odd noise at that suggestion and Coulson smiled to himself.

***

They barely made it into Coulson's kitchen before Clint backed him up against a wall and kissed him. Coulson thought about protesting that this wasn't the right place, they weren't safely in his bedroom, but Clint was kissing him greedily and the house was empty so his protests died before they could form.

He pulled Clint closer and slid his hands under Clint's jacket, tugging at the shirt under it until he could pull it out of Clint's waistband. The warm skin under his fingers was exactly what he needed and Coulson sighed against Clint's mouth. He wasn't sure he would ever get tired of touching Clint's body.

Clint trailed kisses across his jaw and Coulson sucked in a gasping breath when Clint licked and then kissed the flesh just under his ear.

"How did I get this lucky?" Clint asked softly.

Coulson didn't have a chance to answer because Clint's mouth was on his again, hard and hungry. He wanted to say that Clint wasn't the lucky one, that he was, but the words got lost and forgotten.

Tonight there was nothing slow or gentle about what they were doing. No cautious kisses or careful touches, just heat and need. Coulson felt Clint's hard length against his hip as Clint ground against him urgently. He pushed his thigh between Clint's legs and was rewarded with a low moan as Clint finally had something to rub against. The sound sent a shock of heat through Coulson's body and he was surprised to hear a needy groan of his own.

Clint broke the kiss and pulled back. His eyes glittered in the dim light from the lamp in the corner and Coulson wondered what Clint was seeing in his face.

"I had this whole plan," Clint said. "I was going to take you up to your bed and undress you slowly. Then I was going to suck your dick until you came."

"But?"

"I really don't want to walk that far."

All the air suddenly seemed to leave the room as Clint dropped gracefully to his knees and pressed a kiss against the bulge straining against the front of Coulson's trousers. Coulson looked down and he was caught in Clint's gaze as, never looking away, Clint carefully unfastened and then pulled his trousers and underwear down. The way Clint looked up at him from under his eyelashes, the heat in his eyes, almost made Coulson's knees buckle. He couldn't look away as Clint leaned forward and sucked him down with a happy sigh.

After that, Coulson was lost in the heat and suction as Clint did exactly what he'd promised. Coulson's breathing sounded loud and harsh in his ears and he had to concentrate to hear the quiet grunts and whimpers Clint made. Clint's hands seemed to be everywhere, pressing and kneading, and Coulson could feel the heat building up until his skin prickled and his nerves sang with it.

Then Clint pulled off and whispered 'please' and the puff of warm air over his hot, wet flesh pushed Coulson over the edge.

He was sitting on the cold tiles with Clint kneeling over him when awareness returned. In the dim light he could just make out the smugly pleased expression on Clint's lips. Coulson smiled and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on Clint's tongue. He could feel Clint's hips shifting restlessly and hummed softly at the reminder that there was unfinished business.

His fingers were clumsy from post-coital drowsiness but he managed to get Clint's trousers open so he could push a hand inside. Clint trembled at Coulson's touch and his breathing turned ragged.

"Next time," Coulson said against Clint's lips, "I'll take you up to my bed and undress you slowly. I like undressing you. Then you can have me any way you want me, it will all be for you."

"Jesus fuck, Phil," Clint said urgently and he came with a long, low grunt.

They were a sticky mess and Clint rested his forehead against Coulson's shoulder while he caught his breath. Coulson felt like he should be uncomfortable, maybe even embarrassed, about having sex with his valet in the kitchen but Clint nuzzled sleepily at his neck and he couldn't. There was a warm glow in his chest and all he could think about was that he wanted to keep doing this for as long as Clint would have him.

Eventually Clint stirred and sat up, making an unhappy face at the state of their clothes.

"We can worry about that in the morning," Coulson said.

Clint stood up and refastened his fly. "I hate to tell you this, sir, but it's pretty damn near morning already."

A clock chimed for half past three somewhere in the house and Coulson sighed. He let Clint haul him to his feet and pulled his clothes back into something approaching order, good enough to get to his bedroom at least. Clint took his hand and, if they leaned on each other a little as they went upstairs, it didn't really matter.

At his bedroom door, Coulson started to lead Clint inside and was surprised when Clint held back.

"Daisy will be here in a couple of hours," Clint said.

"Just once, I'd like to wake up with you," Coulson said.

"That's what Sundays are for. Daisy doesn't work on Sundays."

The thought made Coulson smile: an entire day of waking up together and not having to pretend at being less than what they were. It sounded like heaven.

Clint leaned in and kissed him, only a brief brush of lips, and then raised his hand to kiss his knuckles.

"Goodnight," Clint said.

Coulson reluctantly let Clint release his hand and close the bedroom door. His bed felt cold and empty and he lay awake for a long time before sleep finally took him.


	10. Chapter 10

_London, May 20th, 1908_

The house where Doctor Foster and her guardian resided was situated on a quiet street in Bloomsbury. Coulson suspected it had been chosen for its proximity to University College as much as its comforts. He'd heard that her guardian, Doctor Selvig, taught there and had been instrumental in getting the University of London to issue its first doctorate to a woman. The event had even prompted a cartoon in Punch. Doctor Foster had become an overnight figurehead for the Women's Social and Political Union even though she'd refused to speak or appear at any of their rallies and disavowed any political preferences at all. It was probably driving Mrs Pankhurst to distraction.

The hansom left Coulson and Clint on the doorstep shortly before ten in the morning. Clint was carrying the narrow case for his bow and a large leather bag and he'd only shrugged and muttered about being prepared when they left the house. Coulson ran the bell and waited for a long moment before ringing it again. Eventually there was a click and the door swung open. The young woman standing in the doorway wore a dark red suit and her hair was piled haphazardly on her head. She impatiently pushed her wire-framed glasses higher on her nose and Coulson noted absently that her multi-coloured fingerless gloves were woollen rather than silk or cotton.

"Yes?" she said, frowning at them.

Coulson offered her a small, friendly smile. "Coulson and this is my man, Barton. Doctor Foster is expecting us?"

The young woman pursed her full lips for a moment before a smile pulled her face into a less forbidding expression. "Stark just said there were more people coming. He didn't say they'd be handsome and charming. Come in."

Coulson heard a suspicious choking sound behind him and caught a glimpse of Clint's face as they entered and the lady reached past them to close the door. Clint looked like he was struggling to contain his laughter.

"I'm Darcy Lewis," their hostess said with wider smile. "Doctor Foster's assistant. Sort of. Can I take your hats? You'll want to keep your coats."

They handed over the hats and she cast them carelessly on a table before picking up a scarf from where it had been hanging over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. It was striped with as many colours as her gloves and she wrapped it firmly around her neck and shoulders, looking like she was muffling herself for a winter walk. The day was already uncomfortably warm so the sight was odd to say the least.

"Where are we going?" Coulson asked politely as Miss Lewis led the way to the back of the house.

She opened a door and the sound of voices drifted out. "Down here. Watch how you go, the third step's loose."

They followed her down and Coulson quickly understood why she'd wrapped up in the scarf and gloves. She led them into what had probably begun as a small cellar and had been expanded over the years into a large underground room. It was damp and chilly, but brightly lit by electric lights. Several scarred workbenches held equipment Coulson couldn't identify and the walls were lined with shelves that were mostly empty apart from a few small, intriguing machines which looked homemade. He suspected any papers had been moved to the upper floors of the house due to the dank air.

"Jane, two more for you," Miss Lewis said casually. "Is that everyone?"

Stark, Doctor Banner and Doctor Foster looked up from the untidy collection of open notebooks and spare parts they seemed to be working on.

"There should be one more," Stark said.

The smile Miss Lewis sent him was deceptively sweet. "I'll just wait upstairs, shall I?"

"Thank you, Darcy," Doctor Foster said absently.

"You couldn't make a really big pot of coffee while you're up there?" Stark asked. "And some bacon sandwiches?"

"Sure I could," Miss Lewis said, still in that sickly sweet tone, and then muttered, "You need it to wash down all that breakfast I made you."

She shot Coulson a slightly guilty grin and disappeared upstairs again.

"What did you two bring me?" Stark asked.

Coulson crossed the room with Clint close behind him. He had wrapped the component in a handkerchief and he pulled it out of his coat pocket and held it out carefully.

Stark stepped back and raised his hands. "I don't like being handed things."

Doctor Banner sighed as though he'd already heard this a few times. "I'll take it."

"It looks dead," Clint said, "but it was like that when we found it. Honest. Dead automaton. We probably didn't even need your go-to-sleep toy."

"What do you think?" Doctor Banner asked, putting it on the table.

Stark leaned over to examine the little device carefully while Doctor Foster and Doctor Banner watched. Coulson took the opportunity to quietly observe Doctor Foster in her own laboratory. The elegant society lady she'd been trying to impersonate in Carter House was gone, replaced by a much more serious woman who Coulson suspected was the real Jane Foster. Her dark blue suit looked like it had been made for someone larger and carefully taken in. The cuffs were fraying and the hem of her skirt was stained from mud and dust. Her hair seemed to be fastened in place with four pencils and there were ink stains on her fingers.

Whatever Miss Lewis did here, Coulson suspected she wasn't a lady's maid.

"I might be able to get this working," Stark said dubiously. "Maybe. I'm a genius but I can't actually work miracles no matter what the press says. It would be much easier if you'd brought us a working one."

"Then it's a good thing I did."

Coulson turned to see Natasha descending the stairs, her elegant day dress and wide-brimmed hat looking out of place in the musty laboratory.

"Your housekeeper let me in," Natasha continued.

"Assistant, not housekeeper," Miss Lewis said, appearing at the top of the stairs with a large tray. "Can you all try to remember that I'm a student and not a housekeeper or a maid or a cook? Jane, do we still have that automated bacon cooking thing or did you borrow it for parts?"

"Uh," Doctor Foster said, her face turning pink. "Maybe?"

Clint's cough sounded like a badly disguised laugh. "Think I should rescue her?"

"It might be a good idea," Coulson said. "Before she burns down the house trying to make Stark's sandwiches."

"Don't do anything interesting while I'm gone," Clint said.

"We'll try."

Natasha approached the workbench and reached into her large handbag to produce something neatly wrapped in green silk. It glowed faintly through the fabric and Stark grinned.

"I think I like you," he said, gesturing for her to put the transmitter on the table. "Did you steal it?"

Natasha's lips twitched. "Maybe. There was a book I wanted to look at and the automaton that was supposed to be guarding the house...went to sleep. It might not wake up again."

"If I didn't think Pepper would kill me, I'd propose to you right now," Stark said with a manic grin. "What else do you do?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in," Natasha said dryly.

***

The day passed slowly. Coulson, Clint, Natasha and Miss Lewis sat on a bench at one end of the lab while the scientists worked at the other, gulping down mugs of tea and coffee in an attempt not to freeze in place. After a couple of hours the cold dampness had seeped into everything and Miss Lewis's lips took on a hint of blue.

Early in the afternoon, Miss Lewis announced that if Doctor Foster didn't need her to pass instruments - apparently one of her main functions - then she was going upstairs where it was warmer. Coulson exchanged a glance with Clint, shrugged, and they followed her with Natasha on their trail. The main house was much warmer and they all discarded their coats and scarves eagerly, apart from Natasha who hadn't worn a coat and still looked perfectly comfortable.

"I'm Russian," she said with an easy shrug. "We have thicker skins."

Miss Lewis laughed and led them into a library furnished with several comfortable chairs and a love seat. She pulled down a book with a ticket poking out of the top and sat down on the love seat. To Coulson's surprise, Natasha produced a slim book from her handbag and sat down beside Miss Lewis. The look Clint gave them both was unreadable but Coulson thought he might, possibly, be able to detect a hint of amusement in the way the skin wrinkled by Clint's eyes.

The shelves were mostly stocked with books on mathematics, natural science, and astronomy. Only half of them looked to be in English, the rest were in French, German and Latin. Coulson spotted a copy of _The Moonstone_ half hidden between _The Principles of Mathematics_ and a work in German. He settled into a chair with it and tried to focus on the familiar words. Clint curled into another chair, tipped his head back and fell asleep almost immediately.

Usually Coulson could get lost in a book easily, but today he found himself easily distracted by half a dozen different things. Miss Lewis and Natasha whispered quietly together on the love seat and he had to fight against his usual instinct to listen. Clint made occasional quiet snoring sounds and Coulson couldn't stop himself glancing over and losing minutes at a time just watching him. Every time he dragged his eyes back to the book he managed to read a couple of pages, and then he'd wonder whether he should check on progress downstairs or get tempted to watch Clint sleep again.

Late in the afternoon, Miss Lewis stood up and nudged Clint's leg with the toe of her boot.

"Help me cook something," she said when Clint blinked up at her sleepily. "We need to feed everyone."

Clint yawned. "Why?"

"Because Jane sent the housekeeper home and I'm hungry. Which means everyone downstairs is famished and they won't notice until they do something stupid and blow themselves up."

"Do explosions happen a lot here, Miss Lewis?" Coulson asked curiously.

"Darcy, please," she said. "And Jane only blows things up when she's hungry or tired. So we should feed the scientists."

"I could eat," Clint said.

"Great," Darcy said. "Now mush, you need to cook. I'll pass you things."

Clint yawned again and stood. The sound of their voices, bickering quietly over what to make, faded down the corridor and Coulson was left alone with Natasha. She watched him silently for a while and Coulson forced himself to sit still and keep an expression of mild interest on his face.

Natasha's eyes were sharp and she barely allowed more than a trace of a smile to touch her lips. Coulson wondered where she'd learned such complete control of her expression and her flawless accent. He'd heard rumours about a secret school in Russia where children were trained to serve the Tsar as spies and assassins but he'd always dismissed the idea. Looking at Natasha, who could easily pass for an English society lady, he was starting to think there had been some truth to it after all.

"How long do you plan to keep him?" Natasha asked eventually.

"Are you going to warn me that you'll kill me if I hurt him?"

"No, Clint's a grown man and he can take care of himself." Natasha leaned forward slightly. "I just want to be prepared if he needs me to pull him out of something. I owe him a debt and I'm trying to wipe out that ledger. If he needs my help when you're finished with him, I'll be there. So I need to know, how long do you plan to keep him?"

Coulson hesitated for a moment, unsure about how honest he could - should - be. He'd only known her for a couple of days and they weren't really friends yet, so confessing his feelings seemed premature.

On the other hand, she clearly cared deeply about Clint and Coulson knew exactly how long he was hoping this would last.

"As long as he'll stay for," Coulson said. "That's how long I plan to 'keep' him: for as long as he wants me."

Natasha's eyes widened and he realised he'd managed to surprise her.

He gave her a small smile. "I don't sleep with my employees on a whim, Miss Romanov. Natasha. This is the first time anything like this has happened."

She nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. "I think I understand."

"I'm glad one of us does," Coulson said wryly. "I haven't understood much since I met him."

"He does that to people."

Coulson was about to speak when the rattle of wheels announced the return of Clint and Darcy. They were preceded by the scent of melted cheese and his stomach rumbled hungrily. Darcy pushed in a wooden trolley laden with a large covered dish and a plate stacked high with thick slices of toast. There were plates and mugs on the lower shelf and Clint followed her carrying a large pot of tea.

"Rarebit and toast," Darcy announced. "I made the toast."

Behind her, Clint mouthed, "She could burn water."

Coulson had to hide his smile behind his hand as Darcy dished out sauce and heavily charred toast for him.

***

The sun had already set when Doctor Banner finally emerged from the lab and beckoned urgently for them. His greying curls were even wilder than usual, as though he'd been scrubbing his hands through them over and over for hours. In the lab, Coulson found Stark and Doctor Foster in similar states. Stark had removed his jacket and waistcoat and his shirt and skin was liberally daubed with oil. Coulson decided not to speculate on the state of his hair, although it was standing up in strange directions. Doctor Foster's chignon had sprouted three more pencils and she'd wrapped up in a heavily patched cardigan that seemed to glitter with metal filings.

"What do you have for us?" Coulson asked as Doctor Banner joined his colleagues.

Stark grinned. "Everything we need."

"That's really specific," Clint said.

"You brought me a dead transceiver," Stark said. "You don't get to criticise for at least a day."

Coulson pretended he couldn't see the gesture Clint made. Clint had learned the tasks of a valet better than he'd ever expected, but Coulson suspected the respectful demeanour was something valets grew into over the years as they worked their way up from footmen. Even if Clint learned to pretend to play the role in public, Coulson privately hoped Clint wouldn't learn it too well. His own training was too far ingrained to allow him to say some of the things Clint could when he felt comfortable with people.

"Maybe we should just show them," Doctor Foster suggested.

She and Stark had been standing shoulder to shoulder in front of their workbench. Now she stepped back to reveal a machine sitting on it, a machine that emitted a soft glow and was responsible for the quiet hissing and whirring sounds Coulson had been half-aware of since he'd entered the lab. It was a little wider than a chess board and Coulson judged it was almost as tall as it was wide. There hadn't been time to tidy it up so there was no outer casing and its inner workings were exposed to view. The glow seemed to be coming from the light under the opaque sheet of glass that formed the top of the machine, filtering down through the mechanism and spilling out over the workbench.

As Coulson approached, he realised that a map had been spread out over it and held in place with heavy clips so it was stretched tight. The light from the plate underneath made the delicate lines of the streets and parks stand out clearly and he bent closer as he noticed that one particular area was glowing brighter than anywhere else.

"It's a control centre locator," Doctor Banner said. "The component inside the automatons is a transceiver - it sends information to and receives instructions from a central processing centre somewhere else. I was able to isolate the radio frequency the one Natasha provided was communicating on. It's not powerful and we think there are actually several centres around London arranged into cells to cover the whole city."

"Cells?" Natasha asked sharply.

"Small units that work together to do something larger," Doctor Banner said. "Like you'd find in the body. In this case, several control centres that cover most of London. We think there are probably more located wherever automatons have been installed outside the city."

"It's very clever," Doctor Foster said. "One centre would need a much stronger signal and it would still have a limited transmission radius. This system uses a much weaker signal and it's almost infinitely expandable."

"I read a paper last year about something like this," Stark said, a bitter expression on his face. "Hammer probably hired the scientist who wrote it the moment he published. The tricky part would be the switch over between linking to one centre and moving to the next if an automaton is moving, but he seems to have solved it. The transceiver's design is incredible. I took the dead one apart and the circuitry inside is...well, it's more complex than anything that small should be."

"You're jealous you didn't think of it first," Darcy said with a teasing grin. "He beat you to something amazing."

Stark smiled sourly. "Hammer didn't beat me. He got someone else to build something amazing and stuck it inside his automatons. We still don't know how the processing happens in the centre, this just shows how they're talking to the centres."

"And this?" Coulson said, nodding to the machine on the workbench.

"It points to the approximate location of the centre the transceiver is linking to," Doctor Banner said. "It's only approximate. To within a couple of streets at best."

"Will it be more accurate when it's closer?" Coulson asked.

Doctor Foster shook her head and a pencil wobbled precariously in her hair. "It can't leave this lab. One of the reasons I build a lot of my equipment down here is that they need to remain cool while they're working. It's not a problem when I transport them to the observatory, they're switched off during transit and the observatory has a cold room for exactly this reason. But it's a warm night and if we take this machine out to start hunting down your control centres, it will overheat and burn out."

"And we don't have time to install a cooling system if we're going to take it out tonight," Stark added, "which is why we built this."

He produced a brass box from under a pile of papers. It was small enough to be held by two hands and he pulled a long, slim metal rod out of one that telescoped to almost two feet in length. There was a metal grill on the front of the machine with a pair of dials below it and Coulson suspected the casing had started out life as something else. Possibly one of the kitchen gadgets Doctor Foster apparently 'borrowed' for parts at times.

"That's a very pretty box," Clint said. "What does it do?"

"It picks up the radio frequency the automatons broadcast on," Stark said, "but only when it's close to something that's active. Within a few feet kind of close. Watch."

He crossed to the other side of the lab and Coulson noted that the automaton's transceiver was sitting on the workbench, attached to the larger detector with wires. Stark twiddled the dials on his smaller device and a faint, high-pitched whine sounded. When he pointed the metal rod in the direction of the transceiver it grew slightly louder and faded to almost nothing when he turned away. He spun around to face the workbench again and moved forward, the sound from his detector growing as he approached.

"Crude, but effective," Stark said.

"What about the other automatons around the control centre?" Clint asked.

Stark grinned and twiddled a dial, making the detector's signal alarm quieter. "You can change the sensitivity. The control centre should have a much stronger signal than the automatons, that's why we're not picking up dozens of tiny signals on the main unit. Trust me, this works. I might even see if there's a market for something like it when this is all over."

"So your plan," Coulson said slowly, "is that we'll wander the streets in the approximate location of that dot on the map and hope your detector can guide us to a control centre. Is that right?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds like a really bad plan," Stark said.

"I like this plan," Clint said.

Natasha sighed. "If you like it, then this must be a terrible plan."

"Do we have a better one?" Darcy asked.

Nobody said anything and Doctor Banner pursed his lips before shaking his head.

"Then this is the plan," Darcy said. "This had better be worth the possibility getting arrested and thrown out of university."

Doctor Foster rolled her eyes. "That never worries you when you go on a march."

"We're marching for something important. This is just-"

"Saving lives?" Coulson suggested.

Darcy considered it for a moment and her shoulders slumped. "You don't play fair. You had to go for the big one."

***

There was a brief debate over who would be taking the detector out to locate the nearby control centre. Darcy wanted to go with them, protesting there was no good reason to leave her behind because she was probably the best qualified to use the detector. She eventually agreed to stay behind with the scientists when Doctor Foster listed all the ways in which Darcy was bad at being sneaky.

Surprisingly, it was Clint who grasped how to work the detector fastest. He seemed to have a surprisingly light touch with the dials and an instinct for where to direct it.

"Trick arrows," he said with a casual shrug. "It's fine work. Can't make trick arrows if you've got a rough hand."

The sly grin he sent Coulson when no one was looking made Coulson's ears feel hot because he knew exactly how delicate Clint's touch could be.

The party that set out from Doctor Foster's house was small, only Coulson, Clint and Natasha. It was unnerving to walk down the dark streets in his own clothes instead of his vigilante garb, but Coulson had reluctantly agreed that they'd look suspicious wandering the streets in black clothes and masks. He didn't often come to this part of the city in his civilian attire so hopefully nobody would recognise him.

They reached the first street on their list in a few minutes and Clint carefully adjusted the detector settings, searching for a signal. Luckily the streets were all residential and very quiet so unless someone chanced to look out of a window, nobody would see them slowly walking along sweeping the metal rod on their device from side to side. Clouds hid the moon but the gas lamps were still burning so Clint could see what he was doing.

Their progress was slow and wisps of fog started to appear, dancing and eddying along the street in the slight breeze. Natasha muttered something irritable about the impracticality of women's boots for walking and Coulson winced in sympathy. The soft whine of the detector had started to become a part of the background, almost too easy to ignore, when the volume suddenly increased and Clint stopped. He cast around with the device for a moment before nodding and moving forward at a more deliberate pace.

Coulson exchanged a glance with Natasha and they hurried after him. The detector's alert gradually grew louder as they walked further down the street, a narrow one that seemed to be mostly boarding houses instead of private homes. It reached a higher pitch and then abruptly began to fade and Clint frowned down at it.

"Is there a problem?" Coulson asked quietly.

"I think it's on the next street over," Clint said. "Approximately here, but it didn't feel loud enough to be right here. You know?"

"I trust your judgement."

Under the yellow glow from a nearby lamp, Coulson could just see the flush in Clint's face and the pleased smile. Natasha snorted and rolled her eyes but she squeezed Coulson's elbow after Clint turned away and Coulson took it as a silent sign of her approval.

There was a narrow alley two doors down so they were able to take a quick short cut to the next street. Clint slowly swept the detector from side to side, listening intently, before nodding and setting out across the street, walking diagonally and making Coulson very glad there was no traffic on the road. This street was wider than the previous one and looked to be a mixture of boarding houses and private homes. It was still late enough - or early enough - that there was no sign of anyone awake and the thickening fog seemed to muffle the sounds of their footsteps.

The house Clint stopped in front of had boarded over windows and there was an air of long abandonment around it. The paint on the front door looked scratched and old and the steps hadn't been scrubbed for a long time. Clint fiddled with the detector for a moment longer before pushing the long rod into the device with a satisfied nod. He slipped it into the bag he'd been carrying over his shoulder.

"This is the place," he said.

"Are you sure?" Natasha asked.

"I'm sure."

Coulson checked up and down the street again before walking up the steps and crouching to examine the lock. It looked slightly rusty but fairly simple and he guessed whoever had installed the control centre here hadn't wanted to alert anyone that there was anything unusual by installing an obviously complex lock. That was the kind of thing that almost invited thieves to take a peek around just to see what could need so much protection.

"Can you get us in?" Clint asked.

"Of course," Coulson said, pulling his lock picks out of his coat pocket. "Can you control yourself if I use these?"

"I'll try."

There was a muffled snort of laughter from Natasha's direction but she looked serene and unruffled when Coulson glanced at her.

The lock was simple but the rust made it difficult to force the mechanism to click into place and Coulson silently cursed the sloppy maintenance that had caused it. Even if this house was supposed to be a secret, there was no good excuse for allowing locks to rust until they were almost inoperable. Eventually the tumblers fell and he pushed the door open, sighing with relief when it didn't creak. They slipped inside and closed it behind them.

The house was completely dark, the boarding preventing even the light from the street lamps from penetrating. Coulson cranked the handle of his pocket lamp until the beam flickered into light and a moment later Natasha held up a similar one.

Clint looked between them and pouted. "I feel left out."

"I'll buy you one for your birthday," Natasha said.

"You buy the best presents," Clint said with a grin.

"Can you narrow down where we're supposed to be searching?" Coulson asked.

"Probably."

The detector's signal sounded loud in the silent house. Clint fiddled with the dials for a minute and the volume dropped. Then he slowly swept it around until he caught the direction and pointed up the nearby stairs.

"Up there," he said unnecessarily.

He led the way up, Coulson directing his lamp over Clint's shoulder so the steps were lit up and Clint didn't trip. They turned left at the top and followed the detector's promptings to a closed door halfway down the hallway. Clint checked a couple of times before putting the device away and resting a hand on the wooden. He leaned closer and pressed his ear to it to listen.

"There's definitely machinery in there," Clint said. "This has to be it."

Coulson nodded and switched positions with Clint so he could try the handle. He heard a faint click behind him and looked back to see Natasha holding small revolvers in both hands.

"I don't take chances," she said calmly.

The door wasn't locked. Coulson guessed that whoever was maintaining the house didn't think there was any need if the outer doors were secure. It wasn't an intelligent assumption but as it worked in their favour, Coulson couldn't make himself feel too bad for their opponents. He started to push the door open but Clint put a hand on his elbow and held him back, gesturing for Natasha to precede them. Given that she was the only one of them who was armed, Coulson didn't argue and she quietly slipped inside.

"We're clear," she said a moment later.

There was a note in her voice that Coulson couldn't interpret until he got into the room and stopped dead. Cold shivers made his skin prickle and he had to swallow down his nausea. Clint bumped into his shoulder and started to ask something but his voice died away as he caught sight of what Coulson and Natasha were staring at.

This had probably been a bedroom at one time but now machinery filled most of the room. It was beautiful in a cold, inhuman way. Brass and steel gleamed brightly and whoever was looking after it hadn't stinted on the maintenance here. Tiny lights flashed on and off with no particular rhythm and there was a constant quiet clatter of gears moving against each other. Somewhere deep inside the machine there was the sound of bellows pumping and a box filled with coal sitting next to it testified to its power source. A large silver pipe fed out of the top of the machine into the ceiling and Coulson guessed the steam and smoke were vented through that. He wondered briefly why nobody had reported the smoke emerging from an abandoned building before dismissing the thought and forcing himself to focus on the most disturbing part.

In the centre of the machine stood a girl. A wide bundle of wires fed into the back of her skull from the machine and she was held in place by metal bands around her wrists, ankles, waist and forehead. She was barefoot and dressed in a ragged workhouse uniform.

She stared straight ahead and after a moment of frozen shock, Natasha stepped forward and waved a hand across her face. The girl didn't respond and Coulson realised with sense of horrified shock that she couldn't see them even though her eyes were wide open. Her skin was grey and she was skeletally thin, the uniform hanging off her frame in thick folds as if it had originally been fitted for a much larger woman. There was a thick stink of decay and urine in the room and Coulson had to swallow again as bile rose in this throat.

"Fuck," Clint breathed. "What is that?"

"I think that's the processing unit of the control centre," Coulson said, his voice sounding thick and painful in his ears. "She's the brain for all the automatons in this area."


	11. Chapter 11

They walked back to Doctor Foster's house wrapped in heavy, uncomfortable silence. Coulson couldn't get the image of the girl out of his head. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her gaunt, half-dead face and guilt rose up that he hadn't been able to disconnect her and take her away. He was almost certain that she would die the moment they tried to separate her from the machine but he thought that would be kinder than letting her continue to be used like a fleshy analytical engine.

The fog had grown thick and cold while they were in the house. It was too dense to see more than a couple of feet ahead and only the slightly pearlescent glow to it hinted that it was after dawn now. A few steam cars passed them on the street, their engines seemingly muffled by the fog and the lamps on the front barely visible. Coulson didn't really mind it because Clint seemed to feel comfortable enough in the dimness to walk close by his side and occasionally brush their hands together. The light touches grounded him and help to chase away the vision of the girl's face.

He wondered what Natasha was thinking but she was walking ahead of them and her face had been blank and unreadable in the house. She had backed Coulson when he argued they couldn't set the girl free and there had been a long, tense stand-off while she and Clint glared at each other. Eventually Clint had given in to Coulson's logic and Natasha's icy stare and he'd stood outside the room for a long time, looking pale and unhappy, while they took notes and Natasha drew a sketch of the wires feeding into the girl's skull.

A hansom was standing in front of the house when they arrived and a man climbed down and joined them at the front door. His hat was pulled low on his forehead but he looked tired and drawn. He gave them a curious glance and waited patiently next to Coulson on the top step.

Darcy opened the door, wearing her striped scarf again and looking sleepy even though she was clearly dressed for the day in a pretty purple dress. Her eyes went straight to Natasha and she smiled before her gaze moved to the exhausted stranger.

"Doctor Selvig!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

There was a wry smile on Doctor Selvig's face. "I live here."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "I know that. But you're supposed to be in Greenwich all week."

He gestured at the fog. "The weather is making any observations useless, so I came home to see my wards but apparently I'm not welcome."

"No, no, you're welcome here," Darcy said, stepping back hastily to let everyone in. "We just weren't expecting you and we're in the middle of something."

Doctor Selvig looked curiously at Coulson, Natasha and Clint as they entered as well and Darcy closed the door.

"So I see," he said. "Perhaps you should tell me what's been going on."

Coulson held out his hand. "Doctor Selvig, Phil Coulson. It's a pleasure to meet you, I've heard a lot about you. This is my valet, Barton, and our friend, Miss Romanov. Your wards are helping us with some problems we've been having."

At that moment, Doctor Foster emerged from the basement followed by Doctor Banner. They both looked fresh and curious and Coulson envied the sleep they'd clearly all had.

"Did you find the control...ah, good morning Erik," Doctor Foster said awkwardly, shoving one of the pencils more securely into her messy hair. "We were just...uh...this probably looks odd."

"Mr Coulson was just explaining to me how you're helping him and his...associates with some kind of problem."

Doctor Foster straightened her shoulders. "Yes. Yes, I am. We can talk about it over coffee. I think some of us need it."

"My housemaid will be worried when she realises I haven't been home," Coulson said, thinking guiltily about Daisy.

She would probably have the police looking for him a few minutes after she discovered the beds hadn't been slept in and they hadn't been seen.

"I think Tony's wife is taking care of that," Doctor Banner said with an awkward smile. "She seems very efficient."

"Where is Stark?" Clint asked.

"He's making the coffee," Doctor Banner said. "I think building things calms him down."

There was a loud clang from the direction of the kitchen and Doctor Foster winced. "Does making coffee really need to include building a machine to make it?"

***

Apparently the coffee making machine originally installed in the house had been sacrificed at some time for parts, which was why Stark was intent on building something new, improved, and possibly dangerous. Clint took one look at the mess of pieces on the kitchen table and began making coffee the old-fashioned way. After something sparked and nearly took Stark's eyebrows off, he stopped protesting and let Clint get on with the job.

They drank coffee and ate toast in the lab so Stark and Doctor Banner could demonstrate the detectors as they explained what had been happening to Doctor Selvig. He looked like he didn't know whether to believe them or send for the large men with white jackets that buckled down the back. When Coulson outlined what they'd found in the house, though, he started to look slightly green and much more serious.

"That's horrific," Doctor Selvig said when Coulson finished.

There was a hint of an accent in his voice - Coulson thought it was Swedish - and his distress made it thicker so his words became clipped and guttural. Doctor Foster put a hand on his shoulder and Doctor Selvig squeezed it.

A thought had been nagging at the back of Coulson's mind since he'd seen the imprisoned girl. "Doctor Banner, are you familiar with the details of the murders Detective Inspector Fury has been investigating?"

"The Thames Ripper? He's had my team running information through the analytical engine for weeks." Doctor Banner frowned. "You don't think..."

"Fury told me there were details they hadn't released to the press. That's why they were so sure that man they arrested had done it at first. He knew something about the bodies that nobody else was supposed to." Coulson took a careful breath. "Their bodies have holes in the base of the skull, don't they?"

Doctor Banner rubbed his forehead. "Yes. A large hole and it looks like their brains have turned to mush. Nobody could work out how it was being done. All the women were prostitutes or from the workhouses and they all looked severely malnourished, but in those areas that's not unusual. It was the damage to their skulls and brains that was unusual. That and the lack of...ah..."

He glanced uneasily at Darcy and Doctor Foster.

"They hadn't been raped," Darcy said bluntly.

"Yes, there were no signs of forced sexual activity on their autopsies," Doctor Banner said uncomfortably. "It didn't match anything we had on file and believe me, Fury had us input and process everything we could find going back fifty years."

"Why would they be getting dumped like that?" Coulson asked thoughtfully, frowning down into his mug.

"What if their brains can't cope with all that information they're processing?" Clint said. "Maybe something happens to them after a while and they have to be replaced."

"Like upgrading parts in a machine?" Stark said. "It's possible. They're processing the data for multiple automatons, that's got to be a lot more than a human brain normally does so maybe it's more than a brain can cope with and they overload in some way."

"Except they're human beings," Clint said with an unhappy twist to his lips. "Whoever is doing this is throwing people away like pieces of garbage."

"It's not really a new thing," Darcy said. "We've been doing it for centuries. This is just more noticeable than normal."

Darcy's words made another horrible idea surface in Coulson's mind. "Whoever is doing this is picking these women because they won't be missed. They're the ones society has already thrown away: he's finding a way to use them for a while before finishing the job. If they hadn't washed up on the banks of the river, nobody would have noticed that any of them had disappeared."

"How many have been found?" Stark asked.

Doctor Banner thought for a moment. "Eight. There's no way of knowing if that's all of them. Some of them might have washed out to sea if the tides were right."

Stark whistled and there were varying degrees of horror in the faces of everyone else. Coulson put down the piece of toast he'd been trying to eat and took a large swallow of coffee to settle his stomach. Under the table, he felt Clint squeeze his leg for a moment and he shifted his foot to rest against Clint's.

"I want to go on record saying whoever is doing this is a very bad person," Darcy said. "And that means someone needs to do something about him. Preferably something permanent and very painful."

"I can think of many ways to make him suffer," Natasha said with a cold, cruel smile. "Some of them last for days."

Darcy looked torn between admiration and revulsion, with admiration perhaps winning very slightly. Part of Coulson hoped Natasha was exaggerating but deep down he was fairly sure she wasn't.

"You are a terrifying woman," Stark said. "I like that."

Natasha shrugged and the atmosphere lightened slightly.

"Do you know who you're looking for?" Doctor Selvig asked.

"My money is on Justin Hammer," Stark said. "His company builds the automatons. These kinds of short cuts have his handwriting all over them. He buys scientists and cuts corners on everything. His company was haemorrhaging money all over the place last year and the automatons have saved it. This? Turning humans into analytical engines? He'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Your prejudice..." Doctor Banner started but Stark cut him off with an emphatic gesture.

"No, it's him," Stark said. "I know it. The evidence is all there. We need to take him down."

"So we go to Scotland Yard," Doctor Selvig said. "That's what they do."

"With what?" Natasha asked. "A few suspicions and a tall tale about people being used in machines. We already suspect the police have been bought somehow, otherwise someone would already be investigating the deaths the automatons have caused."

"Not all of them have been bought," Coulson said quietly. "Fury hasn't been and this is his case, in a way. He's an old friend so I know he can be trusted."

There was a short silence as the idea sunk in.

"Isn't Maria Hill one of his people?" Natasha asked.

Coulson shrugged. "He doesn't know that the vigilante and I are the same person. He's never known. Hill's actions aren't his fault."

"He will if you take this information to him."

"I'll do it," Doctor Banner said quietly. "He knows me and I can keep your name out of it. I can keep all your names out of it. We can say it's just been Tony and I working on this, none of the rest of you need to be involved."

"Are you sure?" Coulson asked.

Doctor Banner smiled. "I'm sure. Really, I'm the best person for this."

There was nodding around the room and Coulson couldn't find any good reason to argue with Doctor Banner. It felt like cheating, somehow, to let Doctor Banner take the risk and potentially face Fury's anger if he felt they'd been working behind his back but all their other options were much worse. At least Doctor Banner could get to Fury without anyone else in the Yard finding out and asking difficult questions.

Doctor Selvig looked like he was going to say something but a yawn interrupted him and Coulson was suddenly aware of how tired he was as well. He'd had no sleep last night and very little in the nights before and it was starting to catch up with him. Next to him, Clint yawned widely as well and even Natasha was starting to look like she was wilting a little.

"You need to do it today," Coulson said. "Automatons will be installed in every government office in Whitehall within a couple of days. Just think how much power that will give whoever is controlling them."

"Today," Doctor Banner promised. "I'll leave right now."

"I'll find you a cab, if anything is out in this fog," Darcy said.

"Thank you," Doctor Banner said.

They hurried upstairs and Coulson was unhappy to find he couldn't hold back another yawn. The journey back to Walden Square seemed like an impossibly long and unpleasant one in the fog.

"Why don't you get some sleep while we wait for Doctor Banner to come back," Doctor Foster said. "You can take my room and Darcy's."

Doctor Selvig stood up. "Absolutely, you must get some sleep. I'm going to, I'll show you the way."

Coulson exchanged glances with Clint and Natasha and they all stood up as one. The prospect of a few hours of sleep overcame even the buzz of anticipation at finding out what Fury would do with their information. Doctor Selvig led the way upstairs and pointed Natasha to Darcy's bedroom. He shrugged apologetically when he indicated Doctor Foster's bedroom.

"We're a small household," he said. "Unless your valet would like to take one of the attic rooms, but they haven't been touched for years and the dust must be inches deep up there now."

"This is fine," Coulson said smoothly. "It's only for a few hours. We can share."

As soon as the door closed behind them, Coulson wrapped his arms around Clint and held him for a long, long moment. The feel of Clint's arms sliding around his waist and pulling him in closer made something cold and hard in his chest soften and Coulson buried his face in Clint's shoulder so he could be surrounded by Clint's scent. They stood like that for a long time and then they pulled apart and Clint brushed his lips over Coulson's in a gentle, brief kiss.

It chased away the last of the chills from what he'd seen and Coulson smiled and raised a hand to cup Clint's jaw. Clint leaned into the touch and kissed his thumb, his eyes never leaving Coulson's.

"We should sleep," Coulson said.

Clint smiled and said, "Yes, sir."

They stripped down to undershirts and trousers, neither of them feeling comfortable removing more in a lady's bedroom, and lay down on the bed. After a minute, Clint grabbed the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed and pulled it up to drape over both of them. They fell asleep holding hands under the blanket.

***

Coulson was disoriented when he woke up. The light was at the wrong angle, the bed was too hard, and somebody was holding his hand. For one panicked moment he couldn't remember where he was or who was in the bed with him and he felt his heartbeat speed up. Years of waking up alone and training himself not to want the warmth of another person there tried to reassert itself and point out all the ways this was wrong and dangerous.

Then he opened his eyes and found Clint right there in front of him, sharing the same pillow, and the panic melted away.

Clint looked sleep-tousled and beautiful and there was a soft smile on his lips. The smile widened when Coulson lifted their joined hands and kissed the tips of Clint's fingers.

"How long have you been awake?" Coulson asked.

"A while," Clint said quietly.

"Were you watching me?"

"Yes."

As always, Clint's unflinching honesty took Coulson by surprise. It must have shown in his eyes because Clint freed his hand and gently traced a finger along Coulson's jaw. The soft touch made Coulson pulse quicken and wish they were at home where he could kiss Clint until he was breathless.

"I was watching you," Clint said. "It seemed fair. You've watched me all those times when I fell asleep in the kitchen but I never get to watch you."

"You knew about that?"

The tip of Clint's ear went pink. "Yes. Uh, I might have pretended to be asleep a few times. Maybe."

Coulson smiled and recaptured Clint's hand so he could press a kiss on his palm and then hold Clint's hand against his jaw. "You didn't mind me watching?"

"No. Never. It was..." Clint seemed to struggle for to find the words for a moment before continuing. "I liked you watching. Wait, that sounds wrong." He paused. "When you watched me, it felt like that was all you could do. You always held back from doing anything else or letting me see how you felt, except on those evenings when you thought I was asleep and didn't know you were there. It was our time, in a weird sort of way, and for a long time I thought that was all I'd ever get."

"I didn't know how to approach you without sounding like I was one of those men who thinks anyone who works for him is there to be taken and used."

A sly, teasing smile appeared. "You can take me and use me however you want."

Coulson felt his face warm and he didn't know how to respond. He glared at Clint instead, trying to look irritated although he suspected his expression was closer to fondly exasperated.

"Was this supposed to be an important talking about feelings moment?" Clint asked.

"I thought that was where you were going." Coulson rolled his eyes. "And then you turned it into flirting and innuendos we can't act on because we're in someone else's house. Again."

"I have really bad timing."

"You do."

"I guess telling you that I really like the way your stubble feels right now would also be a bad idea?"

"Probably."

The thoughtful look in Clint's eyes as he rubbed his thumb on the stubble made heat curl low in Coulson's gut.

"You haven't let me shave you yet," Clint said, his eyes intently focused on his own thumb. "I'm sure it's one of those things I'm supposed to be doing for you - it's probably right there in the valet's handbook if I'd ever found it - and you've never let me. Why is that?"

Coulson took a careful, shuddering breath as images filled his mind, making the heat spread and burn brighter inside. He put a hand on Clint's waist and used it to pull him closer, pressing their hips together so Clint could feel exactly how much just the idea of it had affected him. He'd let Gowan shave him sometimes and it had been the least sexual act he could imagine. There was something about the image of Clint, though, focusing intently and dragging a razor carefully over his skin that made all reason fly away.

"It was difficult enough when you were learning to knot my ties," Coulson said, his voice sounding rough in his ears. "Letting you shave me would have been a very bad idea."

"Oh." Clint's eyes darkened and he held very still. "Good to know for future reference."

The air felt thick and heavy and Coulson was aware that his breathing was becoming uneven and the temptation to lean over, to cover Clint's body and kiss him breathless, was almost overwhelming. He could feel the tension in Clint's body and see sweat beading on Clint's lip.

"When this is all over," Coulson said, "we need to go somewhere nobody will find us for a few weeks."

"That sounds like heaven."

Coulson almost leaned in to kiss Clint, the thought was there, but he was startled out of it by a loud thump on the door. His heart pounded in his ears as he tried to remember whether they'd locked the door before going to sleep.

Someone hammered again on the door and then Darcy's voice shouted, "Wake up! You're needed downstairs right now. Something's happening."

There was another loud bang followed by the sound of footsteps in the hallway and a loud thud as Darcy knocked on another door. Coulson didn't dare to release the breath he'd been holding until he heard Darcy's feet moving past their door again and then clattering downstairs.

"Shit," Clint said quietly. "You have a point, no more teasing when we're not alone."

Coulson nodded. "Definitely not."

"Promise to keep my hands to myself forever unless we've got a locked door, sir," Clint said fervently.

"It was my fault as well."

Clint grinned. "Yes, this is definitely at least half your fault."

"At least?"

"Shouldn't we find out why Darcy is shouting for us?"

The thought spurred them into action and they quickly untangled themselves from the blanket and each other. Darcy's sudden intrusion had been more effective than a cold bath and Coulson was almost grateful for the fright. It would have been a very bad idea to walk out of Doctor Foster's bedroom with an erection still pressing at the front of his trousers. They pulled on shirts and shoes as fast as they could and Clint grabbed their jackets and ties. Coulson was still buttoning his waistcoat as they hurried downstairs and then continued down to the lab when they heard agitated voices from down there.

Natasha was somehow there ahead of them looking pristine and coolly prepared. Only some slight wrinkles in her skirt showed that she'd also taken advantage of the time to catch some sleep. Even her hair still looked like it was freshly dressed without a strand out of place. She raised an eyebrow at them as Coulson took his jacket from Clint but a commotion at the far end of the lab quickly distracted her.

Stark had a spanner clenched between his teeth and he was almost lying on the workbench so he could fiddle with something inside the larger detector. Doctor Banner was fiddling with the dials on the side of it and muttering under his breath. The question of why nobody had told them Doctor Banner was back didn't seem important when he was clearly deeply worried about whatever the detector was showing. Doctor Foster had another machine in front of her further along the bench that was making a loud hissing noise as she tried to adjust something on it.

"Is it my imagination," Clint asked, "or does there seem to be a lot more light coming out of the detector than before?"

He was right. The soft glow was now a harsh, bright beam and the map had been torn off and put to one side, probably in case it caught fire from the heat the device must now be emitting.

"It started ten minutes ago," Darcy said.

Coulson had been so intent on watching what the scientists were doing he hadn't noticed Darcy standing quietly in the corner. Now she moved to Natasha's side and cast a worried look at the group frantically trying to adjust their equipment and talking in technological gibberish Coulson didn't understand.

"What happened?" Natasha asked.

Doctor Selvig hurried down the steps and said something quiet and harsh in Swedish that Coulson guessed was a curse. He seemed to grasp what was happening immediately and moved to help without sparing a glance for anyone else.

"The detectors suddenly went crazy," Darcy said, absently fiddling with the end of her stripy scarf. "One minute they were just sitting there, the next minute there was light everywhere and I nearly went deaf when the little one screamed."

"What's causing it?" Coulson asked.

"I'm not a scientist, I'm just an assistant. I pass things to Jane and make notes," Darcy protested.

"I thought you said you're a student," Clint said.

Darcy gave him an irritated glare. "I'm reading literature, not this stuff."

They waited tensely as Stark and the scientists worked, feverishly trying to adjust their equipment and compensate for whatever had suddenly caused everything to nearly overload. Coulson managed to grasp that the signal they'd been tracking had suddenly been overwhelmed by something much stronger but the rest of the conversation went straight over his head.

Eventually Stark straightened up with a quietly satisfied, "Got you."

Doctor Banner gave one last, tiny nudge to one of the dials and his slight smile told Coulson they'd done whatever they were trying to do.

"Does anyone want to tell us what just happened?" Darcy asked.

"Somebody turned on very powerful something that's broadcasting on our frequency," Stark said. "It's got to be reaching everything in a fifty mile radius."

"Our equipment was tuned to the very weak signals from the control centres," Doctor Banner said. "It's like...it's like we were trying to detect a pebble dropping into a pond and someone threw a three pound rock in. For a while, all our equipment was being washed away because the rock was too strong for it."

"That doesn't sound good," Clint said.

Stark scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in a wild mess. "That was my thought."

Natasha frowned thoughtfully. "Does that mean someone can now control all the automatons from one central location? They're no longer working in small cells?"

"That's exactly what it means," Stark said.

A nasty thought struck Coulson and he checked his watch. "Cl-Barton, I need you to find me a copy of this evening's newspaper."

"Which one?"

"It doesn't matter. Any of them will do."

Clint nodded and hurried upstairs. He wasn't gone long, only a few minutes at best, but the wait seemed forever and Coulson hushed Stark whenever he tried to ask a question.

Eventually Clint returned with a newspaper in his hand and Coulson muttered his thanks as he took it. The front page confirmed his suspicion and he threw it down on the workbench. A large photograph took up the top half of the paper showing a line of new automatons in neat uniforms marching out of a large steam wagon that was emblazoned with the Hammer Industries logo. A smaller photograph below showed two automatons standing neatly at attention outside Downing Street.

The headline read, "Whitehall welcomes its newest workers!"


	12. Chapter 12

"This can't be coincidence," Coulson said as calmly as he could. "The timing is too perfect. The signal changed just as dozens of automatons marched into Whitehall - it has to have been planned."

Natasha swore in Russian, Darcy went pale and Clint quietly said, "Fuck."

"Doctor Banner, what happened at the Yard?" Coulson asked.

Doctor Banner had been nervously tapping the arm of his spectacles on his chin as everything fell into place. Now he put them on and frowned. "Fury is looking into the information I gave him. He didn't think he'd be able to arrest anyone today - too many things still to look into, not enough evidence. When I left, he was briefing his team and talking about dawn raids on Hammer Industries manufactories if he could get permission from the Commissioner."

"Hands up who thinks the Commissioner will actually give his permission?" Stark said. "No? Thought so. Fury's a dead end."

"Maybe not," Coulson said. "We just need to point him somewhere definite. Can you locate the source of the new signal?"

"Not accurately," Stark said. "We can give you a best guess to within a few miles. It's more of a directional guess than a precise location. The signal is further away and it's so strong our equipment thinks it's coming from everywhere."

"What's your best guess, then?"

Doctor Banner moved back to the detector and carefully put the map back on the plate. Most of the bottom half was lit up and he shook his head unhappily.

"It's somewhere south of here," he said. "Probably a few miles south of the river. Maybe a little east."

"That's really helpful," Clint said, looking frustrated. "That's only half of London and part of Kent. We'll find the source in no time now."

"Maybe he won't do anything tonight," Doctor Foster said hopefully. "Maybe he's just testing the system and we've got some time." She looked around and sighed. "Maybe not. We'll try to narrow it down."

South and a little east. The direction sparked a memory and Coulson nudged at it for a moment, fitting all the elements together and testing the idea slowly forming in his mind. He could be wrong, but it didn't seem likely. Over the years he'd noticed that coincidences were rare, at least ones as perfect as this.

"Can I see that map?" he asked.

Doctor Banner stepped back to allow Coulson to stand by the detector and trace the map's lines with a finger. He quickly found what he was looking for on the edge, deep inside the brightly lit section. "There's an exhibition in the Crystal Palace. It opened yesterday."

Stark thought for a moment and a smile slowly spread on his face. "The technology fair. Pepper talked about it. I think I've got a display there. Or Stark Industries does, anyway." He broke off and shrugged at the incredulous looks he was receiving. "Hey, this stuff is all Pepper. I build things people want, she's the one who gets them to buy it."

"Could Hammer install something that powerful there?" Natasha asked. "He'd need to have a brain as well, probably more than one if they burn out just from controlling a few automatons."

"It's more than possible," Stark said, looking excited. "It's perfect. He'd never be able to install something on that scale in the middle of the city. Someone would notice all that equipment going in. You said the control centre near here takes up most of a room. Whatever he's using for this has to be much bigger than that. A technology fair in the Crystal Palace would be the perfect cover."

"Then that's where he is," Natasha said.

"Along with hundreds of people," Clint said.

"Hostages," Darcy said.

Doctor Selvig shook his head. "The exhibition closes to the public at eight o'clock. It will be practically deserted after that until the fireworks at ten."

"That's what he's waiting for," Stark said. "After it closes, he'll do...whatever he's going to do. The Commons will still be sitting - he could take out most of the government in one evening."

"We need to stop him," Coulson said. "Tonight."

"Got any good ideas?"

"I'll go to see Inspector Fury," Doctor Banner said. "He'll have to listen to us if we can give him an exact location to send his men to."

"Which location?" Darcy asked. "The Crystal Palace? Whitehall? He'll need to be in too many places at once to protect everyone and stop Hammer."

"He'll send most of his people to protect the government," Coulson said quietly. "If he can get enough people listen to him, that's what he'll have to do. He won't have a choice. Then he'll lead anyone else he can find to the Crystal Palace and try to shut down everything there. Trust me, I've known Fury for twenty years. He'll hate doing it because he'll know he's spread too thin, but that's what he'll do."

There was silence for a minute and then Doctor Foster began pulling cases and small machines down from the shelves.

"I built most of this," she said as she lifted down something that look delicate and spindly. "I've got some theories about stars and radiation that I've been trying to prove. Most of this is useless to us, but if I can make some adjustments to a few things then I might be able to block the signal. Maybe. In a small area, anyway." She surveyed the collection she'd assembled on the bench nodded decisively. "Bruce, I'll go with you. If two rational scientists are telling him what's happening, Inspector Fury can't ignore us. He'll have to do something. When we've got him moving, we can find somewhere to set some of this up. If we block the signal, maybe the automatons will just die before they can do anything."

"Or they'll go crazy and kill everyone anyway," Clint muttered quietly.

"Three scientists," Doctor Selvig said. "I'm going with you."

Stark grinned. "I guess that leaves me, Coulson and Barton to do something about Hammer and his new control centre. You two, grab your sneaking around masks and whatever else you use when you're capturing jewellery thieves. I'll bring the armoury."

Even though Stark had hinted before that he knew about Coulson's double life, hearing the words out loud still sent a cold shiver down his spine. Stark shot him a challenging look and Coulson took a careful breath.

"You _are_ the masked vigilante, aren't you?"

"How long have you known?" Coulson asked.

Stark shrugged. "I didn't until about five seconds ago. Just some suspicions, a few things that only made sense if you were more than you were pretending to be. I've got to say, I've been admiring your work for years. Is Barton your apprentice?"

"Partner," Coulson said, deliberately not looking at Clint for his reaction.

"Partner, apprentice, I don't really care," Stark said cheerfully. "Grab your gear, we've got a megalomaniac to stop."

***

Loading the carriage bound for Scotland Yard didn't take long with several pairs of hands to carry things so the sun was still well above the rooftops when it disappeared into the thinning mist. The clop of horse's hooves had barely faded away when another sound caught Coulson's attention, a low, grumbling drone almost like the detectors' whine but two octaves lower and several times louder. Two bright lights penetrated the fog and then the strangest vehicle Coulson had ever seen emerged and rolled to a stop in front of the house.

It looked like an enormous metal box on wheels with a smaller box attached to the front. A driver's bench was perched on the on the front box with a large wheel attached for steering and several pedals below for controlling the contraption. Coulson couldn't see what was powering it, there was certainly no flue or steam vent, but he suspected the blue glow from under the bench might be a clue.

The driver wore a leather helmet and goggles and it wasn't until she removed those that Coulson recognised Pepper, who was grinning cheerfully and looking nothing like the dignified business woman he was used to. As she climbed down, he realised she was even wearing trousers under a long leather coat and her cheeks were pink with exertion.

"I wasn't sure what you'd want," she said, jumping down the last two rungs, "so Jarvis and I packed everything we could find."

Stark beamed and said, "Honey, you are perfect in every way."

Coulson stepped closer to Clint, who was eyeing the strange vehicle warily, and pretended not to see Stark kissing Pepper on the street in broad (or at least slightly foggy) daylight. He noted absently that Natasha and Darcy had disappeared and tried not to think too closely about that. The possibilities were too terrifying.

"Coulson, Barton, meet the _Iron Heart_ ," Stark said when he seemed to feel Pepper had been thanked sufficiently.

Pepper's cheeks were even pinker now but she rolled her eyes without looking embarrassed. "I thought we weren't naming it."

"I named her," Stark said. "She's too beautiful to go through life nameless and unloved."

"It's a carriage," Pepper said. "Do you name any of your other carriages?"

"She's not just a carriage. She's so much more."

"She's a huge box on wheels," Clint said. "A big ugly box, actually."

Stark looked offended. "She's the most advanced vehicle in the world."

"Still ugly, though."

"She'll look better when I've had time to paint her. I'm thinking red and gold."

There was a look in Clint's eye that Coulson knew would only lead to more teasing so he intervened quickly.

"What's her power source?" he asked.

Stark looked shifty for a moment before smiling smugly. "That's proprietary information."

"He swears it will revolutionise transport as soon as he's got a few problems ironed out," Pepper said.

"Problems?"

"Does she blow up?" Clint asked.

"Never!" Stark said. "Maybe that one time, but it was only a small explosion and I know what happened. She's safer than anything else on the market right now and she doesn't need to carry around her own coal supplies. I'm just having some problems replicating her but I'll fix that."

"Or we'll have the biggest, strangest carriage in London forever," Pepper said. "At least she doesn't cover everything in soot."

"She's not actually the point here, is she?" Stark said. "It's what she's carrying."

He marched to the back of the _Iron Heart_ and unlocked the doors, swinging them wide open and then stepping back so Coulson and Clint could peer in. Clint whistled as he saw it and Coulson shared the sentiment. Racks filled with what looked like rifles and revolvers lined the interior and unmarked boxes were crammed under benches on the floor. There was even what looked like a suit of armour in the corner, although the armour Coulson had seen on display in museums didn't usually have that many pistons on the joints.

"What is all this?" Coulson asked.

"I'm not sure how much good bullets are going to be," Clint said, looking dubious. "Ricochet."

Stark hopped up into the _Iron Heart_ and plucked a rifle out of the rack. "Not bullets. Electricity. The first in a line of non-lethal weaponry. Which the army doesn't want because they prefer killing people, but their loss is our gain right now. Did you charge them up?"

Pepper sighed. "No, I just brought you a carriage filled with dead weapons for fun."

"Sorry, honey." Stark held up the rifle and pointed to a switch. "That's the safety. After this is off, it's just like a regular rifle. Point, shoot, zap your target with a few thousand volts of electricity. It doesn't kill an automaton, but it confuses their circuits for a while so you've got time to do something more permanent."

Coulson caught the gun as Stark threw it to him and examined it carefully. Up close, the differences were obvious and the weighting felt odd in his hands but he thought he could get used to it.

"How many shots does it have?" he asked.

Stark shrugged. "The electric charge only stays in them for a few hours. I'm still working on that. And they only store enough power for three hits so we're going to need to carry as many as we can with us."

"I think I'll stick to the old-fashioned way," Clint said. "I get more than three hits out of my gear."

"Have you considered adding to your repertoire? Acid and explosives are great, I'm impressed, but I can probably work you up some other things when we have more time."

Clint frowned. "Did you go through my stuff?"

"You left it lying around. I got curious."

"The cases were locked."

Pepper smiled apologetically. "Putting locks on things only makes Tony more curious. I'm sorry, it's not one of his more appealing traits."

"I'm very appealing," Stark said. "I appeal to a lot of people."

Coulson was preparing to referee an argument when the door to the house opened and Natasha and Darcy emerged. Stark's eyes bulged slightly as he caught sight of them and Clint grinned, his eyes flickering back and forth between Stark and the women. Even though Coulson had seen Natasha in her tight black trousers and coat before, the impression was still a little stunning. Paired with the way Darcy looked wearing one of Doctor Selvig's old suits, repurposed and hastily adjusted with belts and rough stitching, it was easy to understand why Stark was speechless.

Natasha's small smile was sharp and intent as she focused on the gun in Coulson's hands. "Are there more of those?"

Stark sputtered for a moment before saying, "You can't come with us!"

"Oh?" Natasha raised one eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because you're...you're..." He trailed away and waved vaguely at Darcy's clothes. "You're...."

"I hope you're not going to say we can't come because we're women," Darcy said with a dangerous look in her eyes.

Stark seemed to realise exactly how much trouble he was in and he swallowed. "No?"

"Good boy," Natasha said, patting him lightly on the cheek and hopping up into the back of the carriage.

She reached down to give Darcy a hand up and they began casually examining the collection of weapons. Clint shrugged, darted into the house and emerged a moment later with his bow case and the big bag he'd brought with him.

"I've got everything we need, boss," he said. "I think it's time to hit the road."

Pepper pulled on her helmet and goggles. "You can plot on the way. We need to move if you're right about the timeline."

Coulson followed Clint into the carriage and joined him sitting on the bench, taking the rubber-soled boots Clint handed him. Stark hesitated for a moment before giving in to the inevitable and climbing up, pulling the wide doors shut behind him just as they lurched into motion.

***

They arrived just as the sun was starting to turn pink and dip toward the horizon. Travelling in a huge metal box on wheels wasn't subtle, but Pepper managed to pull off the road and conceal it in the trees not far from the grounds of the Crystal Palace. It was the best they could manage and by the lack of guards swarming over them when they clambered out, Coulson guessed either they hadn't been noticed or nobody thought there was any need to set a watch around the perimeter.

Coulson checked that the two small electric pistols in his belt were still secure and slung the large bag of rifles onto his shoulder. Stark was similarly laden and Clint would only need a minute when they got inside to put his bow together and string it. For now he carried the case in one hand and his bag with the quiver of arrows in the other. It was much lighter now and Coulson had been impressed by how much Clint had managed to cram into it and his level of preparation. Clint had exchanged his white shirt for an old black one and a brown jacket while they travelled and Coulson hadn't been the only one who appreciated the brief display. There had been a smug little smirk when Clint noticed the eyes on him.

All Coulson had done was remove his shirt collar and tie and button his long black coat to the neck. It had the same effect, dark clothes for concealment, but he didn't have Clint's confidence about showing off his body.

Natasha and Darcy had somehow concealed several small electric gadgets in their clothes and Natasha's wide belt bristled with pistols. Darcy had looked unnervingly enthusiastic when Stark explained how the two pistols she carried work and what the effects would be if she accidentally shot a human with them.

Pepper joined them looking worried. "Do you have a plan yet?"

"Stop Hammer, deactivate the automatons," Stark said.

"That's not a plan, Tony, that's a statement of intent." Pepper's worried look acquired an edge of irritation. "A plan has teams and maps and signals."

"Do you have a map of the Crystal Palace? Because I don't and-"

Pepper held out a folded piece of paper. "A map with all the exhibits marked. We needed it when we were planning our installation, which you'd know if you hadn't spent the last month with your head inside a big metal box on wheels."

Stark stared at her with a look of complete adoration and Coulson carefully hid a smile. Clint was less successful at stifling his snort of laughter but Pepper and Stark didn't notice.

After a minute, Natasha cleared her throat and held out her hand for the map. It didn't take long to settle on a plan and Coulson was uncomfortably aware that it relied heavily on a lot of assumptions but time was passing fast and they needed to move. Pepper promised to tell Fury what they were doing if he came and then Stark kissed her quickly and they were on the move.

The red sun reflected off the thousands of glass panes covering the Crystal Palace, almost making the huge building look like it was on fire. Coulson looked up at it as they approached it and felt a shiver of something that he decided had to be anticipation, not premonition.

"It's beautiful," Clint said quietly.

"It's huge," Darcy said.

The approach to the principal entrance was deserted and Coulson guessed that anyone still lingering in the area was walking in the huge gardens on the other side or making their way to the Underground station not far away. If anything really was happening tonight, Hammer must have already dismissed the regular guards because they were able to walk up to the Palace without anyone stopping them. Pepper's map showed several entrances for tradesmen and it was one of those they intended to use. The door was locked but that didn't slow them down. Coulson graciously allowed Natasha to pick it this time and she had it open with the smooth touch of a professional in a few seconds.

As soon as they were inside, Coulson and Stark each pulled a rifle out and swung their bags back up over their shoulders. Clint only needed a minute to string his bow and sling his quiver over his shoulder, leaving the case and bag behind.

"Is everyone still sure about this?" Coulson asked, deliberately not looking at Darcy's pale face and wide eyes.

There were nods and Clint grinned. "I'm sure, boss."

"This is going to be fun," Natasha said with a hungry smile.

"You and I have very different interpretations of 'fun'," Stark said.

Natasha shrugged carelessly and exchanged a glance with Clint, who looked almost as eager as she did. Coulson called himself ten kinds of hopeless because right now he wanted to kiss Clint more than he'd ever wanted to before and that seemed like a very bad idea.

Instead he pulled his mask over his head and said, "Then we'd best get to it."

As agreed, they split into groups: Natasha and Darcy disappeared to the right, Stark headed for the door leading into the central hall and Coulson followed Clint up the stairs that would take them to the gallery. Clint paused partway up to pull on his mask and fit an arrow to the string of his bow. The click as Coulson flicked off the safety on his rifle sounded shockingly loud in the empty stairwell and he held his breath for a moment before continuing on.

There was a door at the top of the stairs and they stopped there for a moment, listening intently. Nothing seemed to be moving and Coulson nodded. He held up three fingers, counted down slowly, and on the signal they pushed the door open and went through in one smooth action. Movement to Coulson's right immediately caught his attention and he ducked just as a brass arm swept through the air where his head had been. He straightened and spun round, his finger instinctively squeezing the trigger. Blue lightning spat out of the end of the rifle and enveloped the automaton in crackling electricity. Its arms jerked wildly for a moment and then it froze in place.

Coulson turned and shot another automaton that was trying to creep up on him. It also shuddered and lurched to a stop, one arm raised as though it was going to smash down on something. His heartbeat thundering in his ears, Coulson glanced down the gallery but there were no more automatons and everything seemed quiet. Sunlight shone down through the glass panes in the roof, bathing everything in orange and red.

"That worked better than I expected," Clint said quietly.

Coulson had been vaguely aware of the quiet twang of Clint's bow but he was still surprised to turn to the valet and find three automatons a few feet from him, all standing motionless in strange poses with arrows sticking out of their chests. There was the faint stink of acid in the air and black goo was oozing and hissing out around the arrows.

"How many more of those do you have?" Coulson said.

"A couple of dozen."

"Let's hope we don't need all of them."

"Your optimism is overwhelming."

Even though Coulson knew there was probably one shot left in his rifle, he switched it for a fresh one and flicked off the safety as quietly as he could. The Crystal Palace was huge and there wasn't going to be time to search the entire building, so they'd made their best guess about where the new control centre was likely to be and split up to search. According to Pepper, the galleries had been closed to the public so that was where they were concentrating their search. The central hall below seemed an unlikely location. Despite the plants scattered throughout and the courts on either side under the galleries that could be easily closed to view, there would be too great a chance of someone accidentally stumbling into something they shouldn't. The galleries would be deserted most of the time and a few companies had been given permission to store equipment upstairs in great curtained cubicles.

Pepper had looked irritated about that and Coulson guessed Stark Industries hadn't been given permission.

Clint and Coulson were supposed to be searching the northern end so they turned left but before they could take more than a couple of steps there was a commotion from below. A loud bang echoed around the hall and then the sharp sound of footsteps on tile. Coulson exchanged a glance with Clint and they quietly crouched and moved to the edge of the gallery so they could peer down through the metal struts of the railing.

Stark was sauntering casually across the central hall and Coulson swore under his breath. This hadn't been in the plan. After a moment he realised what Stark's plan was and swore again.

"What's he doing?" Clint whispered.

They looked down on a stage that had been set up in the middle of the hall between two small theatres. It was perfectly placed to gather the evening sunlight so it caught on the shining brass machines that formed its backdrop. A large Hammer Industries logo perched at the top, its upper edge almost brushing the metal balustrade of the gallery opposite their position. Three men were standing on the stage with their backs to Coulson, arguing quietly over a piece of equipment. One of them wore a general's uniform and there was something in his posture that seemed familiar but Coulson couldn't place it.

The man in the middle turned around and Coulson recognised Justin Hammer from the photographs in the newspapers. He held something that looked like an over-sized metal helmet with wires sprouting from it and there was a smug smirk on his face.

"Anthony!" Hammer said. "It's just like old times now."

Stark stopped a few feet from the stage and cross his arms over his chest. Coulson couldn't see his face but he could hear the suppressed anger in his voice when he spoke.

"Justin Hammer, what the hell are you doing?" Stark said.

"Beating you," Hammer said. "Being better than you in every way possible, just like I always have been. Do you like my little inventions? I thought it had to be you messing around with them."

"Your little inventions kill people," Stark said flatly. "You've taken a few short cuts."

Hammer shrugged. "Even you can't build a better analytical engine than the human mind. You just didn't have the guts to use it but I did and look what I've achieved. Profits at Hammer Industries are through the roof and last I heard, Stark Industries was struggling. Really, Anthony, it's like you're not even trying anymore."

"You haven't changed since school. You're always trying to be the best and when you can't do it fairly, you steal other peoples' work and take short cuts. Now you're killing people as well. At least I've got standards."

Hammer laughed. "Standards, that's funny Anthony. I think I'll take money and power instead, it's a lot more satisfying."

"Power?" Stark said. "All I see is a man with some metal toys and a big money jar."

"Really? Because if that's all you can see, then you're either much more stupid than I thought or you're playing dumb for some reason. Which one is it?"

The clanging sound of metal footsteps on tile echoed through the hall and Coulson bit back a groan as he saw three automatons closing on Stark.

"Shit," Clint said softly. "He's playing bait."

"Or he's providing a diversion. We need to find that control centre."

"Good plan, boss."

They shuffled back from the balustrade and straightened up. The gallery was still deserted and the sunlight was starting to fade. Below, he heard Stark's muffled curse and then Hammer's delighted voice.

"Don't struggle or they'll tear your arms off," Hammer said. "This is actually perfect. I always work best with an audience and now you can watch everything."

The first curtained-off cubicle was close and Coulson started moving slowly toward it with Clint at his side. He heard Stark say something in a taunting tone but he shut it out and focussed on listening for any sign of movement behind the curtain. Clint drew his arrow halfway and nodded to signal his readiness. Coulson took a careful breath, flipped the material to one side, and felt his heart sink slightly when all he found was a pile of broken down crates.

"You think my ambitions are that small?" Hammer was saying as they moved on. "Anthony, meet my new cabinet. My foreign secretary, General Ross, and my new home secretary, Sir Douglas Mayne. We're going to rule the British Empire."

"With you as Prime Minister?" Stark said. "Isn't there a law here about having to be British to be in charge? You're as British as I am."

Coulson stiffened as he recognised the names and finally understood who the man in the army uniform was. He'd served under Ross for a few months and they'd been the worst months in his short military career. Ross was greedy, he had no tactical instincts and he'd regarded his men as disposable pawns put there to advance his own ambitions. He'd been a disaster on the battle field and it hadn't taken long before he was quietly shuffled off to a unit where he couldn't do any real damage.

"I own the army and the police," Hammer said. "In a few minutes, I'll own Whitehall. I can make my own laws."

"Campbell-Bannerman's death was very convenient for you. Do you plan to pardon yourself for a Prime Minister's murder when you can make your own laws?"

"Actually, that was just serendipity. Not everything's a conspiracy."

Clint touched Coulson's elbow and he released the breath he'd been holding.

"You know them?" Clint asked.

"Yes," Coulson said. "I served under Ross. Sir Douglas is the Commissioner of Police."

"I guess that explains why we couldn't get the police interested in the automatons."

They continued along the gallery, searching curtained cubicles quickly while Stark and Hammer continued to argue, until a rough, angry voice interrupted.

"Stop showing off and get on with it," Ross said.

There was a pause and then Hammer laughed nervously. "Good point, good point. Anthony, my _old_ friend, watch this."

Coulson took a risk and moved back to the edge of the gallery just in time to see Hammer place the helmet on his head. For a moment nothing happened and Ross glared impatiently. Stark was struggling against the automatons holding him but they were too strong.

Hammer suddenly stiffened and screamed, the sound echoing around the hall. Coulson caught a glimpse of a dark figure flitting along the gallery opposite him and he breathed a quiet 'thank you' that Darcy and Natasha still seemed to be free. Down below, Ross and Mayne exchanged worried glances as Hammer shouted one more time and fell silent.

"Justin," Stark said urgently, "You don't-"

"It's started," Hammer said, his voice hoarse. "Oh god, it's amazing."

Their time was up and there were three more curtained cubicles to search. Coulson turned back to Clint but he didn't have to say anything; Clint nodded and they resumed their search with more focus on speed than staying quiet now. They found another pile of broken down crates and a machine that clunked and whirred but didn't seem to be dangerous. The final curtained off area was in a corner that would be almost completely hidden from the ground and some instinct told Coulson this had to be the one. He paused to listen and heard a quiet, rhythmic hissing sound almost like several bellows pumping in unison.

It was a familiar sound.

Clint drew his bow and nodded. Coulson reached out, swept the curtain aside and pulled in a sharp breath at what he saw. The machine was much larger than the one they'd found before and the reason was immediately obvious: it wasn't just powered by one human brain. Five men and women, all wearing the ragged uniform of a workhouse, were attached to the machine with wires feeding out of the base of their skulls. They all had the blank, wide-eyed gaze Coulson had seen before and their lips were moving as they quietly whispered to themselves. He took it all in with one horrified glance but his attention was drawn away by a quiet clang behind him.

He turned to find an automaton charging toward him. It was fast, much faster than he'd expected, and his first shot only caught its shoulder. That was enough to slow it down but there were two more behind it and Clint's startled shout alerted him that more were arriving from the other side.

"Anthony, you brought friends!" Hammer said.

Coulson aimed and shot, one and then the other automaton, and threw his rifle aside. The partially disabled robot seemed to be struggling to get its legs to work together so he threw his bag down and knelt to scrabble inside for another rifle.

The fact that he was kneeling down at the right moment was the only reason the first bullet missed him. Hammer must have made some modifications because the clumsy automaton's hand swung down to reveal the round snubbed nose of a gun fitted inside its wrist.

"Shit, sir, they're armed!" Clint shouted.

"I've noticed," Coulson said, ducking and rolling as two more metal creatures appeared from behind a cubicle and started firing.

The next few minutes were a confusion of running, ducking, and trying to shoot at metal bodies that moved so fast Coulson couldn't keep track of them. He heard shots whizz past his ear and the metallic clangs as they missed and hit the gallery walls and floor. It was impossible to keep track of Clint when it took all his concentration just to avoid being hit.

One bullet went wild and hit the roof, sending glass raining down onto the hall below and Coulson could only hope it didn't hit anyone.

The sound of gunfire echoed around the Palace and Coulson realised it wasn't just coming from the automatons around him. Brassy figures were running along the gallery on the other side of the hall and Coulson heard someone scream in pain. There was nothing he could do, though, because the fight here was growing more desperate. Automatons were climbing up and over the balustrades to join the action and he went through all three shots in his rifle and one of his pistols much faster than he'd expected.

Clint also seemed to be struggling. Several automatons were oozing acrid goo but more were advancing on him and he couldn't possibly have enough acid arrows for all of them.

Coulson shot an automaton clean in the chest and ran to grab his bag. Something tried to grab his coat but he turned and brought the butt of his rifle down on a brassy head with all his strength. The automaton staggered away and Coulson swung his rifle into its chest, which sent it flying into and then over the railing. There was a loud crash when it landed in the hall below.

Most of Clint's automatons were now a stinking mess and he'd returned to the control centre. Coulson grabbed a fresh rifle out of his bag, shot two more automatons, and hurried to join Clint.

"Is there any chance they'll survive if we detach them?" Clint said.

"I don't know," Coulson said.

"Fuck."

Coulson touched the place where the wires disappeared into the skull of one girl and shuddered. "It doesn't seem likely. I'm not sure how we'd detach them without damaging their brains."

"Their brains could already be pretty badly fucked up."

"Probably," Coulson said. "If we don't shut this machine down, though, even more lives will be destroyed."

"I know." Clint sighed. "I've just never killed anyone before."

Coulson grabbed his hand and held it tightly. "They're probably already dead."

"They're breathing. They've got heartbeats."

The unhappiness in Clint's voice caught at Coulson's heart and he had to swallow hard to keep his voice even and professional. "I'll do it."

He knelt and put a hand on the bundle of wires feeding into the machine. If there was going to be any chance of saving any of the people attached to it, he couldn't pull the wires directly out of their skulls. The sheath over the wires felt warm under his fingers and Coulson tightened his grip.

Clint yelled and Coulson looked up in time to see Clint shoot another automaton that had been trying to sneak up behind them. Coulson tugged at the wires in his hand and pulled harder, but they were attached too firmly and he couldn't pull them loose.

"Metropolitan Police!" someone shouted below and Coulson recognised Fury's voice.

He breathed a sigh of relief and started to stand up but a loud boom of gunfire to his right made him drop back to the ground. His knee banged painfully against something and he bit his lip.

Something dripped on him and for a moment Coulson couldn't work out what was happening. The girl he'd been trying to free was slumping against her restraints, her eyes still wide open despite the blood flowing from a hole in her forehead. Her lips didn't move.

Coulson rolled away and shot an automaton in one movement. He could hear the sound of fighting below now, the muffled grunts and thumps under the louder sound of gunfire and bullets ricocheting off metal. There were still too many automatons in the gallery and Coulson could feel they were trying to force him away from Clint. He tried to resist but his rifle was drained and his remaining pistol only had a couple of shots left. Foot by foot they forced him back and it took all his skill to stay alive.

He passed the machine that clunked and whirred and used it for cover for a minute before an automaton flanked him and he had to use one of his precious shots to disable it. The steady thumping march of the automatons advancing on him shook the floor. It was impossible to tell how the battle below was going and Coulson felt the cold emptiness of failure clutch at his chest.

Then everything exploded.

The concussion filled his ears and Coulson was flung back against the wall. He felt hot air on his skin, burning despite his mask and he couldn't breathe. For a long moment he lay crumpled on the floor, waiting for everything to crash down on top of him because it surely had to. There was no way the Palace could survive an explosion like that.

Eventually he rolled over and cautiously stood up. Automatons lay scattered like toys all over the floor of the gallery. To his left, where the control centre had stood, there was just a large empty hole. Everything had disintegrated and flames were licking up pillars that now didn't support anything, just hung out over empty air. Coulson stared out at the empty space, peering through the flames and trying desperately to see a dark, familiar figure with a bow, but there was nothing.

His mind went blank, a comforting haze of nothingness taking him away for a while. He wasn't aware of leaving the gallery and running down the steps. The feel of metal cutting into his hands shocked him out of his fugue and there was someone shouting in his ear but he had to pull the rubble away.

He had to find Clint.

A hand, resting on a twisted metal strut. Coulson reached for it and almost choked when he pulled off the glove and recognised Clint's long, blunt fingers.

Someone grabbed his shoulders and Coulson shoved an elbow into his attacker's chest, only recognising Natasha's voice when she grunted painfully and swore at him in Russian.

Digging Clint out seemed to take forever and Coulson didn't register how many hands were helping him or who they belonged to. He could hear things falling around him and feel the heat of flames gradually growing closer.

Finally they pulled out Clint's limp body and Coulson batted away everyone trying to help, lifting Clint onto his shoulder and stumbling in the direction Natasha pushed him in. They'd barely got under the cover from what remained of the gallery when there was a tinkling crash as hundreds of panes of glass finally gave in and fell to the ground. They exploded into shards and Coulson gritted his teeth against dozens of tiny stings on his legs. He felt warm blood running down his skin where glass had struck him through his torn and tattered trousers.

Screams echoed around the hall and Coulson was buffeted by people running, desperate to escape the flames and falling glass. He followed Natasha blindly, stumbling slightly under Clint's weight, and finally emerged into the cool evening air.

They couldn't rest here, though. Natasha continued running and Coulson followed her, down the steps and across flagstones until he reached the grass at the edge of the decorative gardens and dropped to his knees.

A moment later there was another shattering roar as something exploded inside the Palace and the rest of its roof fell in. The concussion of the blast sent Coulson reeling and had to let Clint fall to the ground. He threw himself across Clint's body, protecting him as much as he could as more glass and rubble rained down on his back and head. He stayed there for a long moment, feeling Clint's chest rise and fall against his and barely able to breathe from the relief.

Someone touched his shoulder and Coulson slowly sat up. He pulled his mask off and took several deep breaths, tasting ash and gunpowder in the air.

"Coulson?"

Fury's voice sounded muffled and far away. Coulson carefully pulled Clint's mask away and sucked in another breath at the sight of blood running from Clint's nose and the extreme pallor of his skin. He stroked a finger along Clint's jaw and, miraculously, Clint's eyes fluttered open.

Clint smiled through the muck and blood and said, "Hello sir. Did we win?"

Coulson hesitated for a moment. They'd destroyed the control centre and the automatons in the Palace had been disabled, but he'd lost track of everything else after the explosion. He glanced up at Fury, searching for some clue in his friend's expression. The flames from the burning building played tricks with the light, sending shadows dancing so it was impossible to read anything in Fury's face. After a moment, though, Fury nodded and that was enough.

"We won," Coulson said.

"That's good. That's...that's really good. Thank you, sir."

"What for?"

"For everything. Phil."

Clint held his gaze for a long moment and Coulson read emotions there he hadn't even dared to hope for. The shouting and the roar of the fires faded away and Coulson smiled down at Clint. He took Clint's hand and held it against his chest so Clint could feel his heart beating. It seemed to be what Clint needed because his smile widened slightly and then he slowly closed his eyes again.


	13. Chapter 13

_London, June 11th, 1908_

Coulson stared up at New Scotland Yard's imposing edifice and tried to ignore the apprehension that kept trying to twist his stomach into uncomfortable knots. The early morning sun shone on its red and white bricks and he was reminded, yet again, that there was a good chance this was going to be the last place he saw as a free man. He just hoped that by some miracle he could keep Clint out of prison.

Not far away, Big Ben struck the hour and Coulson forced himself to move.

Word must have been left that he was expected because he only had to say his name to a harried looking sergeant behind the front desk and the reaction was immediate. A constable was immediately found to lead him through the twisting corridors and down two sets of stairs to a large basement room with 'SHIELD' stencilled on the door. Only one desk was occupied, set in the corner where a woman bent over to examine something with a jeweller's lens. As there was only one female detective in London, Coulson decided he had to be looking at the famous Detective Sergeant Hill. She looked completely absorbed by her task but Coulson saw her fingers twitch when the constable knocked on a door at the end of the room.

The constable opened the door and ushered Coulson through with a nervous smile. It was probably just his imagination that the door sounded like a jail cell when it closed behind him, he told himself.

In twenty years of friendship, Coulson had never met Detective Inspector Fury. They'd met as Nick and Phil, young men newly admitted to a radical gentlemen's club where the ability to afford the subscription was supposed to matter more than skin colour or social background. The Nick Fury that Coulson had always known was the man who played cards, complained about the bureaucracy of his job and laughed when Coulson grumbled about the frustrations of not having a job.

The man sitting behind a desk, glaring at Coulson with undisguised anger, was definitely Detective Inspector Fury.

There were two chairs pushed against the wall but nothing in front of the desk and, to Coulson's mind, the message was clear. Coulson squared his shoulders, folded his hands in front of him and met Fury's glare with the blandest expression he could muster.

"I received your letter," he said evenly. "Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For not arresting me at home and dragging me through the streets," Coulson clarified. "You'd have every right."

"Damn right I would. I should have arrested you three weeks ago."

"I know."

Fury's glare didn't lessen. "You're just lucky I've been too busy until now to work out what to do with you."

"I've been following everything in the papers," Coulson said. "Do you ever sleep?"

"Only on alternate Tuesdays," Fury said sourly. "You and your friends created a big mess to clean up. A major landmark destroyed, multiple trials for treason and nobody seems to know what we can do with Justin Hammer. The machine fried his brain when Barton blew up the control centre so he'll probably end up in Broadmoor. Apparently we can't hang insane men, even if they deserve it."

"It could have been worse."

"How?"

"We could have failed."

"That's the only reason you're not behind bars right now." Fury sighed, some of the anger seeming to drain away to be replaced by sadness. "Coulson. Phil. I always thought we were good friends and now I'm finding out that I barely knew you. All those times you listened to me talking about my work, were you just using me to find new things to chase in your mask? How long have you been the vigilante?"

"Our friendship had nothing to do with my other...activities," Coulson said. "I didn't even start to think about being what I am until a few years ago, long after we were already friends. I always stayed far away from anything you were involved with and I didn't use anything you told me, I swear."

"Until now."

"We didn't know the automatons were connected to your river murders until very late."

"Hmm." Fury didn't look convinced. "What about Barton, how long has he been involved in all this?"

Coulson worked hard not to show any emotion. "Not long. Only a few weeks. He found out by accident and insisted on helping."

For a moment, Fury's expression softened slightly. "How is Barton?"

"Healing," Coulson said. "The hospital let him come home a couple of days ago. He's already impatient to get his cast off."

There was a moment's pause while Coulson swallowed and cleared his throat.

"I've always known you had preferences," Fury said. "Didn't bother me, it never has done."

Coulson blinked, surprised, and a hint of a sly smile appeared on Fury's face.

"Of course I knew, Phil," he said. "And as long as I never see or hear anything I can't ignore or misinterpret, whatever you're doing with Barton is your own business. If I arrested you for your relationship with him, there are a couple of men in my own department I'd have to arrest as well. Make sure I never have to do that. I hate having to enforce stupid-ass laws."

"I'll try."

"You'd better. I never want to have to arrest my oldest friend for any reason, but arresting you and the person you've chosen to care about would make me feel like shit. I'd do it, don't think I wouldn't, but I'd probably have to resign after."

It was the first hint he'd been given that there might be a friendship to salvage and Coulson felt something cold and ugly start to loosen its grip on his chest. He'd resigned himself to losing a good friend that night outside Crystal Palace. If he'd been thinking more clearly, maybe he would have kept the mask on. Maybe.

Thinking about maybes was pointless, though. All he'd been able to see in that moment was Clint's unmoving body and he hadn't been able to breath with the thick fabric over his face.

"I understand," Coulson said. "As far as you're concerned, he's only my valet."

"How serious are you about his...valeting?" Fury asked carefully. "Should I expect him to stay for a while?

 

"You're the second person to ask me that. It's not something we've talked about." Coulson smiled thinly. "It probably depends on whether you're going to arrest me for anything else."

Fury nodded. "I guess it does. And that's up to you."

"Up to me?"

There was a long pause and then Fury sighed and waved a hand irritably to one of the chairs. "Sit down, Coulson. You're making my neck hurt. Damn it, this is ridiculous."

"Are you sure?"

"That you can sit down? Is there anything medically wrong that's preventing you taking a damn chair and sitting down? Then I'm sure." Fury pointed. "Pull up a chair, sit your ass down and I'll explain your options."

Coulson wasn't foolish enough to think this meant he was forgiven, it was too soon for that, but the mention of options allowed him to hope that forgiveness might come one day. He dragged a chair over and sat down close enough to the desk that his knees pressed against the wood uncomfortably.

"I thought my only option would be a jail cell," he said. "I've broken the law dozens of times over the last few years. The old Commissioner wanted my head on a platter, from what you told me."

"The old Commissioner wanted a lot of things including the overthrow of the British Empire," Fury said. "I've lived in this country long enough to know what a disaster that would be. So I'm not inclined to think he had anyone's best interests at heart."

"Oh."

"They'll appoint a new one in a few weeks," Fury continued. "Probably another civil servant who's never spent a day on the beat in his life."

Coulson coughed. "Neither have you."

"Point is," Fury said with another glare, "that I've got some leeway right now. Some wriggle room. I can offer you a deal and we'll have everything tied up nice and neat before the new man gets in."

"What kind of deal?"

"You've got three choices." Fury held up a finger. "You can retire, never put on a mask again and stay the fuck out of any and all criminal activity. Even if you accidentally walk into something - some poor bastard being robbed at gunpoint - you turn around and leave. No interfering, no playing the vigilante ever again."

Fury held up a second finger. "Or you can keep doing what you've been doing, but you report to me. If I need you to look into something, you look into it. You keep me informed about what you're doing and you bring anything big straight to me, no playing things out to see how they go down or going rogue."

"What's the third option?" Coulson asked, although he could easily guess.

"I throw you in a cell so fast your feet won't even touch the ground." Fury raised his eyebrow. "Do we have an understanding about that option?"

"Are you going to offer Barton the same deal?"

"Way I understand it, this deal is for the whole package. Barton doesn't get to carry on your work if you choose retirement. You're both either in or out and I won't hesitate to arrest him if he tries to carry on your work after you retire. Fuck, if you retire and I hear about anyone running around in a black mask then I'll be at your door to arrest you both faster than you can blink. I won't even bother to ask questions first."

"If we choose option two, do we get any kind of amnesty?"

"You mean, will I help you out of the shit if you get caught by anyone outside my team?" Fury asked. "No. You get careless enough to get caught, I burn you both. This arrangement is off the books: no money changes hands, you've got no official status."

Coulson thought for a moment. It wasn't an offer he could make a decision about and there were still a few other loose ends worrying at his conscience.

"What will happen to everyone else?" he asked.

"The merry little band you pulled together to investigate your automaton problem?" Fury asked. "I can't actually find anything to charge them with so they're not my problem. If you drag them into anything else, we'll see how much trouble you get them into. Is that fair?"

It was the best he was going to get so Coulson nodded. "It's fair."

"So, what 's your answer?" Fury asked.

"Can I have a few hours?" Coulson said. "This isn't something I can decide on my own. It's not just my choice anymore."

"Take a whole day," Fury said. "I'll expect to have your answer on my desk by noon tomorrow. If you haven't sent one, I'll send my team to take you into custody tomorrow afternoon."

"You'll have my answer by the morning."

"I'll be counting on it."

Fury didn't smile but he nodded and the anger had gone from his eye so Coulson took that as another good sign. There was, at least, something left of their friendship to salvage as long as he didn't do anything to damage Fury's trust even more.

"I should probably go," Coulson said. "I've got someone I need to talk to."

"You probably should," Fury said.

He stood and moved to the door, but he paused when Fury spoke again.

"Can you give me any idea which way you're leaning?" Fury said. "Just so I know whether I'll need Rogers and Barnes tomorrow afternoon."

Coulson shrugged. "Not really. It's not just my decision anymore."

The irritated glare Fury sent him was almost fond and Coulson allowed a small smile to escape his control before he turned and left.

***

Coulson intended to go straight home, but partway there he changed his mind and redirected the hansom to Hyde Park. The day was growing warm and after a few minutes of walking, Coulson took off his coat and folded it over his arm.

Wandering the paths of the park had always been a good way to clear his mind. Sometimes he almost missed the necessity of taking a daily walk here in case Charlie or one of his friends needed to drop information. It had been easy to get out of the habit once he didn't need to do it and he regretted letting that happen. Maybe it was time to resume a few of his old habits.

Perhaps Clint would enjoy the occasional walk in the park when he was more mobile again.

Coulson lingered on that thought for a minute, imagining Clint by his side talking quietly and making funny observations about the people they passed. It was a tempting prospect.

He lost track of time as he walked through the park deep in thought. The sun was high in the sky when he stopped on the bridge over the Serpentine and rested his arms on the railings so he could watch the water. Ducks fought noisily over the bits of bread two children were throwing in with more enthusiasm than skill. A young couple were walking nearby smiling shyly at each other with the cautious expression of two people who can't quite believe they've been so lucky.

It reminded him of the question Fury and Natasha had both asked. What did he really want from Clint?

The answer was obvious enough in some ways. If all he'd needed was a warm body in his bed for a few nights then everything would have been so much easier. No worrying, no wanting and not having, just some carefully worded questions or hints and a philosophical acceptance if he'd misread things.

He wanted more than that, so much more. Clint wasn't just a warm body in his bed; he was the person Coulson felt like he'd been waiting for his entire life.

It wasn't enough just to have Clint for a couple of hours each night and share a few stolen kisses whenever they were alone in the house for long enough. The vision of waking up with Clint, sharing breakfast and supper and doing all the other domestic things people did together, made something warm and happy fill his chest.

Coulson remembered the expression in Clint's eyes when he'd wished they could spend a few days somewhere nobody would find them and the way Clint had whispered that it sounded like heaven. There had been complete honesty in Clint's eyes in that moment and something so warm and happy it had almost been too much to look at.

Maybe this kind of future was something Clint wanted as well and he hadn't been able to say anything. Coulson had been trying so hard to let Clint initiate everything, constantly wary of making Clint feel like this was something he had to do to keep his job. Except this was a proposition that would change their entire lives and Coulson knew deep down that it was something he had to do. If he wanted that vision to be real, he'd have to find the way.

The sun was just starting to dip lower in the sky when Coulson left Hyde Park and hailed a hansom. He felt lighter and happier than he had for a long time and it was only the ache in his feet from walking so far already in shoes designed for fashion more than comfort that forced him into the cab. Otherwise he felt like he could have run home, or maybe danced through the streets.

They passed a woman wearing a heavy veil as the cab entered Walden Square and Coulson thought he recognised Natasha's red hair under the thick fabric. He'd thought she would have moved on by now but apparently he'd been mistaken. He made a mental note to ask Clint about that later. The driver gave him an odd look when he paid and Coulson realised as he hurried up his steps that the coin he'd pressed into the man's hand was worth at least four times the fare he owed.

The hallway smelled of beeswax and soap, but Daisy's hat was missing from its peg so she must have finished for the day and left not long ago. He hung up his coat and hat and debated for a moment before going to the kitchen.

Clint was sitting in his usual chair with his leg in its heavy cast propped up on a stool. There was a sock and a needle in his lap but his head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. The skin on his jaw still held the faint yellow traces of a bruise and pink skin from healing cuts decorated his nose, eyebrows and fingers.

The memory of the first few days after Crystal Palace, of watching Clint lying pale and still in a hospital bed while doctors tutted and looked worried, still haunted Coulson's dreams. He suspected that memory would linger for a long time. There was colour in Clint's face now and the bruises were slowly fading. The heavy cast on his broken ankle and the bandages around his chest were the only visible reminders left and even they would be gone eventually.

Clint stirred and slowly woke up, yawning widely and then looking over to Coulson with a sweet, happy smile.

"I knew he wouldn't arrest you," Clint said.

"You didn't seem so certain last night," Coulson said. "Why are you in here? Wouldn't the love seat in the parlour be more comfortable?"

"Only if Daisy isn't glaring at me for daring to sit in your parlour when I'm just the valet." Clint made an unhappy face. "She doesn't approve of that, or of me not having anything to do."

"Is that why you're darning?"

"That's why I'm darning," Clint said.

"I saw Natasha leaving," Coulson said. "I thought she'd gone already."

Clint's expression cleared and he grinned. "Funny thing, that. Turns out she's decided to stick around for a while and see what kind of trouble she can get into."

"Is it because...?"

"Of me?" Clint shook his head. "I'm pretty but I'm not her type. Apparently she prefers them younger and wearing too many scarves and Darcy won't leave university without her degree so Natasha's waiting for her. But that's not the really important question right now."

"What is the important question?"

"The important question is why you're all the way over there."

"Where should I be?"

"Over here," Clint said with a cheerful smirk, "where I can congratulate you properly for not being in a jail cell."

Coulson rolled his eyes but he crossed the room anyway and let Clint pull him down by his lapels for a kiss. Clint made a happy sound against his mouth and licked against his lips until Coulson opened them to let him in. The angle was awkward and Coulson could feel his neck and back complaining about the strain. He'd been half-convinced that he wouldn't get to do this again for a long time, though, so he didn't let any of that distract him from kissing Clint until they were both breathing fast and had to pull away to catch their breath.

The pleased little smile on Clint's face as he smoothed down the front of Coulson's jacket made the bubble of warm happiness in his chest grow and he couldn't resist brushing hair away from Clint's forehead and then trailing a finger along his jaw.

"So, why aren't you in a jail cell?" Clint asked. "Why aren't I in a jail cell as well?"

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Coulson asked. "Daisy's gone home, she won't know you're sitting in my parlour."

"What happened?" Clint asked warily.

"Nothing bad, I promise. I just think we'll both be more comfortable somewhere else."

Clint's crutches were propped beside him. Coulson straightened up and held them out while Clint threw the sock into his basket of mending and levered himself upright. The disgusted look Clint gave his crutches was almost comical but he was surprisingly fast on them. He'd outrun a few porters at the hospital and Coulson was willing to bet that was why they'd been so eager to discharge Clint a couple of days ago.

As they passed the door to the drawing room that had been shut up for the last few years, Coulson hesitated for a moment. He thought he remembered a daybed in there that was probably filled with dust despite the sheets draped over everything. It seemed a shame to have so much of the house - even some of the more comfortable parts - shut up like that.

Clint turned in the door to the parlour with a curious expression. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Coulson said.

He hurried to the door and followed Clint to the love seat, which looked much less comfortable than the daybed he remembered but at least it was clean. Clint sat and let his crutches tumble to the floor and barely even complained when Coulson insisted on finding another stool to prop his cast on.

Then Coulson sat down beside him and tried to find the words he needed but they wouldn't come.

After a long silence, Clint said, "You're starting to scare me. What happened? What aren't you telling me?"

"Fury offered us a deal," Coulson said.

"What kind of deal?"

"We have two options. We can retire and never look into another case or we can work with him."

"And if we don't pick either of those options?"

Coulson raised his eyebrows and Clint nodded.

"That option is jail," Clint said. "Got it. So what did you choose?"

"I told him that I had to talk to you first."

Clint blinked, looking completely pole-axed. "Talk to me? Why?"

"Do I really have to explain?"

"I think you really do."

Coulson twisted round on the love seat so that he could meet Clint's eyes properly. He looked confused and slightly worried and Coulson wanted to kiss that expression away but he suspected they'd never talk this through properly if he started that. Instead he picked up Clint's hand and wove their fingers together, rubbing circles around Clint's knuckle with his thumb.

"I told him that I had to talk to you," he said, "because I can't make a decision like that on my own. You're just as involved as I am and I want us to make a choice like this together."

"Oh."

"I want us to make a lot of choices together." Coulson lifted Clint's hand and kissed his knuckles. "When I told you this wasn't just a fling for me, I meant it. I've never wanted someone to be a part of my life like this until I met you."

Clint gave him a crooked smile. "The feeling's mutual, if that helps."

Coulson smiled and felt some of his nervousness draining away. "What we've got right now isn't enough, is it? We can't even spend a whole night together because we've got Daisy coming in before the birds are up."

"It's what it is," Clint said. "This is a big house. It needs staff. It needs more staff than Daisy, actually, but it's-"

"What if we didn't live here?" Coulson said. "What if we lived somewhere much smaller, a flat somewhere on Berkley Square? We'd only need someone to clean a couple of afternoons a week and the rest we could do ourselves."

The look of open-mouthed shock on Clint's face was almost comical.

"But this house," Clint said after a moment. "It's your family house. What would you do with it?"

Coulson shrugged. "I have a cousin who will inherit everything after I die. He's got daughters who will probably want their Seasons soon. I thought he could inherit this place a few years early."

"You'd really do that?"

"For a chance to be with you all the time?" Coulson said. "Yes. Without any hesitation. If that's what you wanted."

"If that's what I want?" Clint shook his head wonderingly. "Jesus, Phil. It's more than I ever dreamed I'd get. I want it, if you do."

"I do." Coulson swallowed. "To the world outside our home-"

"I'll still be your valet," Clint said. "I know. That's not important. We'll know what we really are and that's the important bit. The rest is just...people. Stupid laws made by people who don't know what they're talking about."

 

"That's almost exactly what Nick said."

"He, uh, did?"

Coulson smiled. "As long as we don't say or do anything he can't pretend he didn't see, he's going to pretend we're just very close friends with an unusual employer-employee relationship."

"That's..." Clint laughed. "That's weirdly sweet and nice of him. As soon as my ribs have healed up, we need to have whole lot of unusual employer-employee relationships. You haven't even fucked me yet."

Coulson pretended he couldn't feel his ears going pink. "Do you always turn serious discussions about feelings into flirting and innuendo?"

"I don't know, I haven't had many of them," Clint said, looking unusually shy. "I'll get back to you in a year or two."

"I love you," Coulson said, feeling the words tumble out before he could think twice about saying them.

There was a pause and then Clint grinned. "That feeling's mutual as well."

The wave of happiness almost made Coulson feel giddy and he was aware that he was probably smiling goofily but somehow he didn't care. Not when he had Clint grinning at him and leaning in for a hungry kiss. He wanted to drown in it and never come up for air, to just stay in this moment forever where everything he'd always wanted was actually becoming real.

"What should I tell Nick?" he asked when Clint stopped kissing him long enough. "About our options?"

Clint sucked a kiss just below his ear, making him gasp, and then sat back looking kiss-tousled and ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Tell him we pick the option where we don't retire," Clint said. "The one where we do good shit for other people and sometimes, if I've been really good, you pick locks right there in front of me. That's the one I choose."

Coulson pressed Clint against the back of the love seat so he could kiss him again, sucking and biting at his lips until Clint was groaning and grabbing at his jacket impatiently.

"Right choice?" Clint said when they parted.

"It's the choice I hoped you'd make," Coulson said. "But retirement would have been fine as well, if that's what you'd wanted."

"Retirement would be boring," Clint said. "This? This is going to be so much fun."

Coulson kissed him again and then tipped them both backward so Clint was sprawled across his chest, a heavy warm weight that he never wanted to give up. Clint sighed and shifted around until he was more comfortable and they somehow ended up lying along the love seat with Clint's head on Coulson's shoulder, his body cradled between Coulson's drawn up knees. It was much too short for sprawling and fooling around but somehow they managed it anyway.

"Can we get one of those big leather Chesterfields in our flat?" Clint asked after a while. "This thing isn't really built for cuddling."

"You think we'll be doing this a lot?"

Clint lifted his head. "Yes, Phil. We'll be doing this a lot. I've got this vision of a fireplace, a Chesterfield, and you reading while I try to distract you."

"I think you'll succeed."

"I really hope so." Clint smiled wickedly. "But as we don't have one yet, maybe we could have a practise run upstairs in your bed."

Coulson smiled and kissed Clint one more time before helping him to stand and gather his crutches so he could lead the way upstairs. The future with Clint felt like a beautiful place and he couldn't wait to start living it.


End file.
